


The Wonder(ful) Years

by elrhiarhodan



Series: The Wonder(ful) Years Verse [1]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Blackmail, Coming Out, Kid Fic, M/M, Teenagers, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-03
Updated: 2012-06-03
Packaged: 2017-11-06 18:25:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 27,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/421858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elrhiarhodan/pseuds/elrhiarhodan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>School Years A/U centering on the friendship between Peter Burke and Neal Caffrey, from the time they are in kindergarten through their senior year in high school. For the purposes of this story, all of the characters are roughly the same age (Peter is a year older than Neal). The setting is middle class suburban New York (Westchester County), circa 1970–1983.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. At The Playground

**Pre-Kindergarten - At the Playground**  
  
“Come on, sweetheart. There’s nothing to be afraid of.”   
  
Neal dragged his feet; he didn’t want to play in the park today. “Not afraid.” He was five years old and it would be silly to be afraid of swings and slides and jungle gyms. He wasn’t afraid when his daddy took him to the playground. His daddy made sure he was safe and no one would hurt him.  
  
“Look at all the kids – don’t you want to go play with them?”  
  
Some of the kids were his age, but it looked like a lot of the kids were older. Older kids were not fun to play with.  
  
“No. Wanna go home.” He tugged at his mother’s hand. At home, there was a big box of crayons and a new pad of paper. And no one to push him down the slide when he wasn’t ready and make him rip his clothes and get a bloody nose.   
  
“Neal, baby – you enjoy it when you come here with Daddy. You know that playgrounds are fun.” He hated when his mom used that tone of voice. She sounded like she was trying to make a deal with him, but he knew that they were going to do what she wanted, and no amount of whining or crying would change his mother’s mind. Even if he threw a temper tantrum. And he was a big boy, he was starting the big school soon, and big boys in the big school didn’t do that.   
  
So Neal reluctantly entered the park, keeping a tight grip on his mom’s hand. When they paused at the edge of the playground, he looked up at her. She squeezed his hand. “It’s okay, Neal. I’ll be right here, watching you. You’ll be fine.”   
  
Neal eyed the swing set. He loved the feel of soaring high, holding onto the chains and reaching out with his feet, as if he could just jump off and fly forever. He let go of his mother’s hand, his own sweaty little palm was suddenly cold. “Mommy?”  
  
“Go on. I’ll be right here.” She ran her hand through his curls. Neal shook his head, he only sort of hated when she did that. He took one slow step, and then another, the rubbery matting on the ground made a squishy–squeaky sound beneath his sneakers. A kid had jumped off one of the swings and Neal raced towards it, grabbing the seat.  
  
Only to be stopped by a big kid. A really big kid with straw–yellow hair and tiny blue eyes that were mean and reminded Neal of a monster in a storybook. “This is mine. Get lost, brat.”   
  
“No it’s not.” Neal wouldn’t let go and the boy pushed him to the ground. Neal got back up but before he could make up his mind whether to fight for the swing or go running back to his mother, another boy stepped in between them.  
  
“Hey – that’s not yours.” The kid grabbed the swing, but the boy who had pushed Neal wouldn’t let go.   
  
“It’s mine,” he repeated. The chains rattled as each kid pulled on the swing seat.  
  
“Leave him alone - he was here first.” The other boy, who was probably in first grade, was actually defending him and his right to the swing.   
  
“Don’t care. I want it. It’s mine.” The yellow–haired boy wouldn’t let go, and he stuck his chin out. “Wanna make something of it, Burke the Jerk?”  
  
“Get lost, Garrett – if you don’t, I’m going to tell everyone I saw you pick your nose and eat it.”  
  
“You wouldn’t!” The kid halfway let go of the swing and made a fist.   
  
“Yes I would, and if you punch me, I’ll also tell them that you still wet the bed.”  
  
The boy – Garrett – turned bright red and looked like he was about to cry. “Take it. I didn’t want it anyhow. Only babies play on the swings.” He ran off.   
  
Neal waited for the big kid to get on the swing, but he just held it still.   
  
“Come on – don’t you want to ride it?”  
  
Neal nodded and approached carefully. He hoped that this kid wasn’t going to wait until he sat down before pushing him off. He jumped on and settled in. The warm rubber felt good against his thighs. He was about to push off, but the kid was still standing there.  
  
“Thanks.”   
  
The boy smiled. “Hey, no problem. I’m Peter.”  
  
Neal smiled back. “I’m Neal.” He thought for a moment, remembering his manners. “You wanna ride first?” He bit his lip, hoping that Peter would say no.   
  
“Nah – I’ll go afterwards.”   
  
“‘kay.” Neal dug his toes into the ground and tried to push back, but he was just a little too short. The swing sort of went nowhere.  
  
“Want me to give you a push?”  
  
“Yeah.” Neal grinned. “Are we friends now?” It would be nice to have a big kid as a friend.  
  
Peter shrugged. “Sure, why not.” He pulled the swing back, and gave Neal a running push – the best kind, like his daddy did. Neal swung out, holding tight onto the chains and pointed his feet towards the deep blue summer sky.  
  
He was soaring.


	2. Dodge Ball

**Fourth Grade - Dodge Ball**  
  
It was raining. That meant they had recess in the gym. Not for all of the kids, though. The first and second graders were in the auditorium watching a movie, but the third and fourth graders got sole control of all the balls, and the basketball hoops and the tumbling mats for a half an hour.  
  
“Wanna play catch?”  
  
Phil Kramer was sort of a friend, he lived down the block and their mothers knew each other. He had gotten left back and had to repeat Kindergarten. Peter’s mom had asked him to be nice to Phil, because he had some “social problems” (according to his mom) and didn’t really have any friends. To tell the truth, Peter didn’t like the older boy. He wasn’t very smart, he usually smelled like the liverwurst or tuna fish or baloney his mother gave him for lunch (or worse), and he was mean. He liked to bully anyone smaller than him, or anyone who couldn’t fight back.  
  
But Peter couldn’t tell that to his mother, who’d look at him like she was disappointed. He’d agree to let Phil come over and play sometimes, but never in his room and never with his favorite toys. He did that once, and Phil had stolen his favorite action figure and deliberately broke the wheels off of three of his best Matchbox cars.  
  
The biggest problem was that the kid clung to him like a bad smell. He always tried to sit next to Peter during lunch and he monopolized him at recess. Like today. He didn’t want to play catch with Phil. When the class was brought into the gym from the lunchroom, Peter had caught a glimpse of Neal Caffrey surrounded by a bunch of third and fourth graders. It looked like he was organizing some game.  
  
Peter liked Neal, even though he was a grade younger. Neal was the opposite of Phil Kramer; he was nice and smart and he was good at a lot of things. They were in French class together, and Neal could already count to one hundred and speak in basic sentences.  
  
Everyone liked Neal – even the older kids. He was the playground king, and as long as he had to be nice to stupid, smelly Phil the Pill, he’d never be part of Neal’s circle during recess.  
  
“So, want to play catch or what?” Phil threw a pink rubber ball at him. It bounced off his shoulder.  
  
Peter went to retrieve Phil’s ball (which was most likely his ball that Phil nicked from his desk). It had rolled towards Neal and the crowd of kids around him. Neal picked it up and handed it back with a smile.  
  
“We’re going to play dodge ball – wanna play with us?”  
  
Peter smiled back, about to accept the invitation, when he looked back a Phil – who had a thunderous expression on his face.  
  
“He can play too.” Neal was so nice, Peter couldn’t tell if he really meant the invitation or not.  
  
He called across the gym, “Want to play dodge ball?” Phil came lumbering over; of course he’d want to play. Peter sighed, and Neal caught his eye.  
  
“You can be a team captain.” The other kids groaned – Neal never played favorites when organizing the games, but Peter wasn’t part of the usual crew. Neal turned to the rest of the kids. “Let him be captain – he’s never had a turn.”  
  
Phil was panting at his side, whispering “pick me first, pick me first.” There was no way he was going to get saddled with the Pill if he didn’t have to.  
  
Neal picked first, and it was an odd choice – a short little kid with big, dorky glasses. Peter knew him vaguely from the neighborhood. He’d seen him hanging out with Neal on the playground. Peter’s first choice was Clinton Jones, Neal picked Diana Berrigan and so it went until Phil and Andy Woods, who was probably even more obnoxious than the Pill, were left unpicked. Phil was beet–red and furious, but Peter didn’t care. Except that the thought of having Andy on his team was worse than dealing with Phil.  
  
He picked Phil and the game got started. The kids made a mad scramble for the balls, which went flying everywhere. Peter threw his and hit Diana. When she ran off the field, she stuck out her tongue at him. Someone shouted and Peter instinctively ducked. The ball thrown at him by little Elizabeth Mitchell missed him by an inch and bounced off of Clinton.  
  
The melee was fast and fierce and soon the two teams were down to two players each. Peter was shocked to see that Phil was still in the game – he wasn’t particularly good at sports. He wasn’t particularly good at anything, really. Neal was still in, as was his friend Mozzie.  
  
There were few rules for playground dodge ball, but the one thing you were never supposed to do was aim for the crotch or for the face, especially if the kid wore glasses. Of course there were accidents, but you didn’t do those things on purpose.  
  
Mozzie threw a ball at Phil, and missed. Peter watched as he got a really ugly look in his eyes and threw his own ball as hard as possible directly at the little guy’s face. Mozzie went down, his glasses broken and his nose bleeding. Ellie Mitchell screamed “NO!” Neal tossed his own ball away and went down on his knees to help his friend. Before any of the recess monitors could come running, Phil picked up Neal’s discarded ball, and at point blank range, spiked it directly at Neal’s head.  
  
Later on, Peter would have sworn that it was at least a minute between the time that Mozzie went down and Phil did the kamikaze on Neal, but it was probably no more than a few seconds. Neal, his nose also bloody, got up and charged Phil, butting him in the stomach with his head. Peter stepped in and pulled Neal off. Kramer stepped back, laughing like a jackass.  
  
Peter looked at Neal, blood streaming down his face, lips pursed and blue eyes blazing with anger. All Peter said was “I’ll take care of this.”  
  
Neal stepped back. There was a moment’s hush from all the kids surrounding them. Phil the Poison Pill was grinning like an idiot, hopping around like he was Muhammad Ali with his fists raised in the air. Peter walked over to him.  
  
“Didja see? I won! I won!”  
  
Peter decked him. He hit him in the face, as hard as he could. There was the feeling of something breaking under his fist and suddenly there was hot blood all over the place. Kramer was momentarily stunned, and to be honest, so was Peter. He had never hit another kid in his whole life. Kramer recovered and took a swing at him, but Peter ducked and punched Phil again, in the stomach.  
  
Suddenly, the gym was filled with the chant “fight, fight, fight, fight” and he was hitting and kicking and punching as if his life depended on it. Phil landed a punch on his face, but Peter was in such a frenzy, he didn’t really feel it.  
  
And just as quick as the fight started, it was over. They were pulled apart by adults who shouted at them to stop. Of course, the little rat Phil got in one more punch and Peter tasted blood.  
  
He was hustled down to the principal’s office with Phil and Neal. Mozzie was rushed to the nurse’s office.  
  
The three of them sat on the wooden benches, with Mr. Oswald, the gym teacher, watching over them. Phil was on one side of the room, Peter and Neal on the other. He looked over at Neal, who had the makings of a shiner from where he was hit. Peter supposed he looked worse. His nose felt swollen, so did his lip. There might even be a tooth loose. He lifted a careful hand up to his face and touched his eyelid. It was sore.  
  
Neal scooted over to him, completely disregarding Mr. Oswald’s stare. He whispered, “Thanks.”  
  
Peter smiled, as much as his split lip would allow. “You’re welcome.” He didn’t have a chance to say anything else. The principal, Mr. Hughes, called them all into the office. When Neal smiled back at him, Peter figured that any suspension he got would be worth it.


	3. Little League

  
  
**Seventh Grade - Little League**  
  
It was the bottom of the ninth, and the score was 3–2. Peter Burke was on third, Clinton Jones was at second, and there were two outs. This was the last chance to score and maybe win the game. If they won, the Jayhawks would have a shot at the division championship, and it would be the first time their team would advance to the next round of play.   
  
Neal retied his cleats, made sure his socks were on straight, and his fly was zipped before stepping up to home plate. He had a phobia about going to bat with his fly opened. It never happened, but it could. And even if it did, he had worse problems than taking a swing and having his cup show.   
  
The coach put him in the game in the seventh inning, and this was his second at–bat. He struck out the first time when he got caught looking. Neal had simply frozen at the plate. Maybe because his stepfather, Vincent Adler, was at the game today.   
  
Neal hated the man his mother married right after his eleventh birthday – and some birthday present _that_ was. He didn’t care that he was a rich guy who had lots of stuff, he didn’t care that he and his mom moved from their little house with the leaking roof on Merry Lane to the big mansion in Upper Brookville. He’d much rather have a tiny backyard and do chores on Saturday mornings than stay in that house with the in–ground swimming pool, rolling lawn and the live–in housekeeper. With _him_.  
  
Neal knew he was going to hate Vincent Adler from the first time he met him. He was a total bastard and made him lock their big marmalade cat, Ceci, in the basement because _he_ was allergic. The day that he announced that he was marrying his mother, he said that the cat was going to “have to go.” He couldn’t abide her fur, it made him sick. It was more like the asshole was afraid that Ceci would mess up his white carpets and white couches and white draperies. He was worried that Vincent Adler would insist that they put Ceci to sleep if they couldn’t find a home for her. He was so relieved when mom told him that his Aunt Ellen would take Ceci, and Neal could go visit her every once and a while.  
  
Vincent Adler – he often thought of him with the first and last name, never “Vincent” or “Mr. Adler” and he refused to call him “dad” or “father” in his head and certainly to his face – was a creep and a total neat–freak. He liked everything to look perfect and couldn’t stand even the smallest speck of dirt or disorder. He even insisted that Neal’s room maintain the same standards as the rest of the house. No posters on the walls, or games or any personal stuff was allowed to stay out, and if there wasn’t a place to put it, it had to be thrown out.  
  
Neal couldn’t understand why his mom married this man. They were doing perfectly fine, just the two of them, since his dad was killed when he was eight. His dad had been a cop and he was a hero, and Vincent Adler hated that. He refused to allow Neal to hang up the framed picture of his father in his dress blue uniform, or the shadow box with his father’s badge and medal of commendation that the Mayor of New York City had given him – or given his mom – after his dad was killed while trying to stop a robbery.  
  
Those things had to be packed away because Vincent Adler didn’t like them. Neal had to always check that they were in a locked trunk at the back of his closet, because he was sure that if his stepfather knew where they were, he’d take them and destroy them.  
  
And worse than everything else, worse than giving away Ceci, worse than not being able to mention his real dad or have any of his own stuff, worse than his mom thinking the sun shone out of Vincent Adler’s ass, was how his stepfather looked at him, especially when his mom wasn’t around. He scared Neal. He’d stare at him and lick his lips. It made him feel weird and bad, and the times that Vincent Adler reached out to touch him, Neal was always careful to duck out of his way. And that made things worse, because Adler would get mean and nasty. He never yelled, he just tore him to shreds in this cold, horrible voice. He’d tell him he was useless and worthless and he’d never amount to anything.  
  
Neal didn’t know why Vincent Adler was at the game today. But he was sitting in the front row, just behind the fence on the first base side. And he was paying attention, like he wanted to be here. But he wasn’t cheering or anything like that. He was just staring at Neal, with that creepy, intense look in his eyes.   
  
This time, Neal decided to bat lefty – this way he wouldn’t have to see Vincent Adler when he was taking his at–bat. The first pitch was a little low and Neal didn’t swing. The next pitch was high and brushed him back. Neal stepped out of the box and took a deep breath. He couldn’t help himself – he looked over at his stepfather. Even from this distance, he could see the lip curled in contempt, disappointment all over his face. There was something else there, something he couldn’t name, something that made him feel sick all over.  
  
Neal stepped back up to the plate, and got the perfect pitch. It was like everything went silent – no breeze, no screaming kids or parents. There was no sound at all, except for the crack of the bat as it connected with the ball. Neal didn’t wait to see where the ball landed – he just dropped the bat and ran. All of a sudden, the screaming and cheering registered, and as he landed on first base, his whole team burst out of their dugout.   
  
He looked back. Peter had crossed home plate and Clinton wasn’t far behind. The opposing team was still trying to field his ball, which had landed just inside the playing field. Neal could have advanced, but the game was won.   
  
Neal tossed his cap in the air, and looked to the coach – actually Peter’s dad – to see if he could join the celebration. Coach nodded and he rushed back to home plate. Someone – maybe Peter, maybe Clinton – lifted him up in a bear hug and everyone else mobbed him.  
  
He made the game winning RBI, and for that moment he felt like Luke Skywalker when he took the shot that destroyed the Death Star. The celebration went on for a few more minutes, until the coach reminded everybody to be a good sport. They lined up and shook hands with the opposing team.  
  
The teams then scattered, kids running off to collect their gear and find parents and siblings and go home.  
  
Now that his mom was married to Vincent Adler, she had more important things to do than come to his games, although she usually did manage to catch the Saturday game every few weekends. Except for those rare occasions, Neal would catch a ride home with Gordon Taylor, who lived about a mile away from Adler’s mansion. But since his stepfather was at this game, Gordon and his folks left without him. Neal picked up his bat and cap from the playing field and went to the dugout to get his glove and change out of his cleats. He didn’t know if Vincent Adler had taken his shiny new German car or the limo, but either way, he wouldn’t let him in the car with his cleats on.  
  
Neal took his time. He didn’t want to ride home alone with his stepfather; he never wanted to be alone with him. He picked up his bat and glove and cleats and reluctantly climbed out of the dugout. It was like his legs didn’t want to work. It seemed to take forever to make his way out of the playing field and into the parking lot where his stepfather was waiting.   
  
Vincent Adler had driven his imported sports car with the hood ornament that looked like a peace symbol.  
  
His stepfather gestured at him to come over. Neal’s feet felt like lead, and it was almost impossible to walk. So he stood there, looking at Vincent Adler, who was smiling at him. Neal swallowed against the icky feeling in his belly.  
  
“Congratulations, son – you won the game.”   
  
Neal muttered his thanks. He hated when Adler called him “son”.   
  
His stepfather reached out, and Neal tried to dodge him, but he was too close and he found himself wrapped in the man’s arms. He could smell his aftershave and his sweat, nauseatingly sweet.   
  
“You’re my good boy, right?” The man just kept holding onto him, and crooning. He was squeezing him and touching his hair, and Neal could barely breathe. It felt wrong and disgusting and he struggled against his stepfather’s hold.  
  
“Let me go! Let me go!” His voice was muffled and when Adler wouldn’t let go, Neal kicked him and broke free. He wanted to run away, but Adler grabbed him by the arm. His face was now red and sweaty and angry.  
  
“I guess you think you’re a hero. But you’re nothing more than a loser who got lucky. A crybaby and a loser.” Adler didn’t yell, but the words carried in the stillness of the late afternoon.  
  
As much as he tried to stop them, the tears came. The fucking tears were rolling down his cheeks like he was a baby, as much for Adler’s cruelty as for what happened before that.  
  
_________________  
  
Because his dad was the coach, Peter was always the last to leave the park. Dad had to make sure the dugout was clean and cleared, that the bases and other gear was stowed and all the game paperwork done. He didn’t mind hanging around, especially when it was nice out. There were picnic tables near the parking lot and he’d wait there if Dad took a long time finishing up.  
  
Today was no different. He stretched out on top of one of the tables, watching the clouds drift by, and thought about the game. It was a good one, especially the ninth inning. His run tied it, and Clint’s won the ballgame, but really, the victory belonged to Neal. It was his RBI that let them score. He loved games like this – snatching victory from the jaws of defeat. His dad taught him that phrase.   
  
There were squirrels in the oak trees that shaded the table and Peter watched them chase each other around and around. It seemed kind of fun but sort of pointless. His mind wandered and he had an odd thought, _How come you never see baby squirrels?_   
  
An angry voice interrupted his musings.  
  
 _“I guess you think you’re a hero. But you’re nothing more than a loser who got lucky. A crybaby and a loser.”_  
  
Peter sat up and looked in the direction the voice was coming from. He could see a man and a kid in a blue and gold Jayhawks jersey. It was Neal, and the guy talking to him was his dad. But why would any kid’s dad say something like that?   
  
_“You struck out your first at bat – you just stood there like an idiot and let three perfect pitches pass you by.”_  
  
Neal said something, but Peter couldn’t hear him.  
  
 _“Don’t you back talk to me.”_ A flood of abuse followed and Peter felt his own face burn at the words. The man wasn’t using bad language or anything like that, and he wasn’t really yelling. He was just belittling Neal, telling him how worthless, how stupid and useless he was; how he was a failure and a disappointment. Peter couldn’t understand it – Neal was the hero of today’s game, and he was a good kid too. Everybody liked him. Peter liked him; he always had, even though they never really hung out together after school. And Neal was really smart, so smart that he had skipped a grade, and now he was in the same class as Peter.   
  
So how could Neal’s own father say those awful things to him?   
  
Peter was listening so intently, he didn’t hear his own father come up behind him. “Son? What’s the matter?”  
  
Before Peter could answer, Neal’s dad’s voice carried, _“You’ve let me down for the very last time, Neal. Find your own way home. And if you go whining to your mother, you’ll regret it.”_  
  
They watched as the man got into a shiny black sports car and drove off, leaving Neal standing there. Peter looked up at his dad, who squeezed his shoulder and gave him a little push. “Go be a friend.”  
  
Peter didn’t really know what to do and he wasn’t sure about his dad’s instructions. He walked over to Neal and just said “Hey,” to announce his presence.  
  
Neal’s head whipped around, and Peter wasn’t surprised to see that there were tears on his face, which he quickly scrubbed away. “What are you doing here?”  
  
“I – was …” He didn’t want to make things worse. “I was waiting for my dad to finish up. I’m sorry – I heard what yours said. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop.”  
  
“He’s not my dad. My real dad’s dead. Vincent Adler is just the man my mother married.”  
  
“I’m sorry.” Peter didn’t know why he was apologizing. It wasn’t like it was his fault that his stepfather was an asshole.  
  
Neal didn’t acknowledge his apology. “When I was eight, my dad was killed by a robber. He was shot three times while trying to protect a bunch of people.”   
  
Peter didn’t know what to say, so he apologized again.   
  
“He was a hero cop. Vincent Adler is just a big, stupid jerk. I wish my mom never married him.”   
  
Neal hefted his bat over his shoulder and started to walk away, which wasn’t right. Peter looked back at his dad, who nodded. “Hey!”  
  
Neal turned around. “Yeah?”  
  
“Wanna come over for dinner?” Peter wondered if that was okay and looked to his dad again. He gave him a nod and a smile. “We’re going to grill hotdogs and hamburgers.”  
  
Neal stood there – looking out to the road and then back at Peter. “Can your dad take me home afterwards?”  
  
His dad stepped up. “Sure – that won’t be a problem, Neal. What do you say we go to our house and you call your mom to tell her where you are? That way she won’t worry about you.”  
  
Neal got a funny look on his face. “My mom won’t care. She and my stepfather are going to a big party tonight.”  
  
Peter looked at his dad, this all seemed so wrong. Why would a parent just drive off? Why wouldn’t Neal’s mother care where he was? His parents weren’t perfect, they made him crazy sometimes, but he always knew that they loved him.  
  
His dad squeezed Peter’s shoulder to give him his own reassurance, and he said to Neal, “You should call anyway – she’s your mom.”  
  
Neal finally agreed. “Okay. I’ll tell Mrs. Barkley – she’ll give the message to my mother.” Neal added, “She’s the housekeeper.”  
  
Peter thought he’d never seen anyone look as lost as Neal. It made his chest hurt, like the time that Satchmo had gotten sick after eating something he shouldn’t have and they thought he was going to die. He also thought about how Neal was at school, how he was everybody’s friend. But he didn’t seem to hang out with anyone in particular, except for that weird kid, Moz. His dad’s words echoed, _Be a friend_. He draped an arm over Neal’s shoulders and nudged him towards the car. Neal stiffened but didn’t duck away.   
  
They piled into the back of his dad’s Chevy, rolled down the windows and listened to the Yankees game on the radio during the ride home. Neal sort of stared out at the passing scenery until Peter and his dad started talking about the game they just played, dissecting it inning by inning. Neal joined in by the time they arrived at the house, and he seemed to have forgotten all about the scene with his stepfather. He was talking about his hit, the hit that won the game, and Peter was careful to heap a lot of praise on Neal. Not that it wasn’t deserved. He caught his father’s proud look in the rearview mirror and smiled back.  
  
Peter’s dad pulled onto the driveway and they ran to the house. Peter dropped his bat and glove on a bench in the garage and dragged Neal inside. His mom was in the kitchen, getting stuff ready for dinner, Satchmo was in the backyard and Peter felt like he was the luckiest kid in the world.  
  
“Who’s this?” His mom smiled at Neal, and Neal held out his hand and introduced himself. Of course his mom cooed a bit about Neal’s manners.  
  
“Peter, take your friend and go wash up. Your dad will have the grill ready in about ten minutes.” She turned to Neal. “I hope you’re hungry, we’ve got burgers and hotdogs and salad if my son doesn’t eat all of the cucumber before it’s finished.” She slapped his hand away from the bowl. “And there’ll be ice cream and pie for dessert.”  
  
“ ‘Smores, too?” Peter begged.   
  
“If your dad didn’t finish the all Hershey bars, yes, you can make ‘smores. If not, you’ll be stuck with homemade apple pie and ice cream.”  
  
Neal looked at Peter like he didn’t believe what he was hearing. Peter knew his mom was overdoing it, but he didn’t mind. It actually made him kind of proud. He dragged Neal out of the kitchen, towards the back of the house where the bathroom was. “We can wash up here.”  
  
There was only one sink and Peter tried not to crowd Neal, but a little splashing was inevitable. And then a lot of splashing. Neal started to laugh as Peter flicked a handful of water at him, and he returned the gesture. By the time his mom called them for dinner, they were both soaked to the skin and laughing like crazy. It was like that moment in the car when Neal started talking about the game and his dad smiled at him.   
  
“Hold on, don’t want my mom to get mad.” Peter threw a towel at Neal and told him to mop up while he rushed into his bedroom to dig out two tee shirts. He tossed one to Neal, striped out of his wet baseball jersey and put the other one on. Neal laughed and Peter grinned. “Race you back to the kitchen.”  
  
_________________  
  
Neal stopped at the corner of Hightop Lane and Hazelwood Drive, his bicycle tires loud against the pavement. It was probably close to two am, and the only sounds were insects and his panting breath. He’d never been out this late by himself, but he couldn’t stay in that house, _his_ house, not for one minute longer.  
  
Neal had been riding around for hours, thinking that maybe he should just go to the train station and go to New York City and disappear, it wasn’t like his mom would care. He had some money, but going into the city on his own was scary, and what would he do when he got there?  
  
He still had the twenty dollars that Aunt Ellen had given him for his birthday, plus another ten dollars he had saved from his lunch money. It would be enough for a train ticket, but probably not enough for a place to stay. He had thought about going into his mother’s pocketbook and taking some of her cash, but he didn’t want to steal. _He_ would send the police after him if he did, and then he’d be stuck there and …  
  
Neal didn’t want to complete that thought.  
  
Peter Burke’s house was on this block. Vincent Adler didn’t know that he was friends with Peter. His stepfather had done his best to make sure that he had no real friends. Moz managed to stay under the radar – but he couldn’t go to Moz, who had his own problems with his folks. There was no one else. No one except Peter. Neal shivered at the thought. Peter probably didn’t remember, but he had stood up for him way back in fourth grade. He beat up a kid – Neal couldn’t remember his name – who had hurt Moz during a game of dodge ball. They had all gone down to the principal’s office afterwards.   
  
The next day, Neal had brought Peter a package of Twinkies to thank him, but Peter wasn’t in school that day or the next. Neal had shared them with Moz, of course. And by the time Peter was back, it seemed kind of stupid, anyway.  
  
Still, Neal had always looked for Peter during lunch, and he always tried to get Peter to play with him and the other kids at recess. They never became buddies, though. Until he skipped fifth grade, Peter was a year ahead of him. Even still, he probably didn’t want to hang out with any younger kids.  
  
But a few weeks ago, Peter saved him again. What happened after the ballgame was both the worst day of his life and one of the best. Peter made him forget about his stepfather, about his mother not caring about him anymore.   
  
That evening at dinner – it was like something from television. Like the Brady Bunch or Happy Days. Only better. They helped Mr. Burke with the grill, and he gave them a “tasting” – pieces of an extra hamburger that somehow just sort of fell apart – before the rest of the food was brought inside. After dinner, they ran around with the dog and watched the Mets game. Mr. Burke and Peter were Yankee fans, but Mrs. Burke liked the Mets, even though they lost all the time.  
  
He didn’t want to go home. Ever. He still loved his mom, even though she married Vincent Adler and she didn’t really care about him any more, but he wished that he could live with Mr. and Mrs. Burke and Peter. He’d do chores and walk the dog and take out the garbage and do his homework at the kitchen table with Peter, and no one would look at him with creepy eyes.  
  
Neal pedaled slowly down the block, trying to remember which house was Peter’s. He did remember that Mr. Burke had an old blue Chevy, and that their house only had one story. It wasn’t too hard to find, and Neal pulled into the driveway, behind the car. He didn’t know what to do. The house was dark and he didn’t think they’d be happy if he rang the doorbell. But Peter’s bedroom was at the back of the house, and he could tap on the window. Even if Peter didn’t wake up, Neal could sleep on the patio. There was a lounger, and that would be a better place to sleep than in a bedroom where Vincent Adler could come in and just stare at him.  
  
Peter’s window was too high to reach, but the moon was bright enough that Neal could find a few stones. He tossed one at the window, waited and tossed another. A light came on, and relief flooded through Neal. Just as he was about to toss the last pebble, the window opened and Peter stuck his head out.  
  
“Who’s there?” Not too surprisingly, Peter sounded groggy.  
  
“It’s me.” Neal whispered loudly.  
  
“Who’s me?” Now he sounded annoyed.  
  
“It’s me, Neal. Neal Caffrey.” Neal hoped that Peter wouldn't be angry at him.  
  
He could see Peter scrub at his eyes. “It’s the middle of the night, what are you doing here?”  
  
Neal hadn’t really thought about what to tell Peter, or his family. But he didn’t want to be thrown out or sent home, so maybe the truth would work. “I’m in trouble – I think my stepfather wants to hurt me. I need a place to stay.”  
  
Peter scrubbed his face and yawned. “Go to the front door, I’ll let you in.”  
  
Neal left his bike against the side of the house and met Peter at the front door. They stood there looking at each other, until Peter said, “Come in, before you wake the dog up.”  
  
Neal stepped inside, and for the first time in days, he felt like it was safe to breathe. Peter tugged at him, and he followed him into the kitchen. “Want a drink?”  
  
“Yeah – do you have any OJ?”   
  
Peter pulled out the carton and a glass. “Help yourself.”  
  
Neal poured a glass, drained it and went to pour another but the carton felt more than half empty, so he went to the sink and took some water. He drank one glass, then another.  
  
“You going to tell me why you’re really here?” Peter’s question made him ill and Neal thought he might just vomit back everything he drank. But he swallowed and breathed through his nose for a few seconds, before turning around.  
  
“I told you, I think my stepfather wants to – ” He had to pause. “Hurt me.” He really didn’t want to tell Peter what Vincent Adler really wanted to do to him.  
  
“Did he hit you?”  
  
Neal bit his lip. He was going to have to tell Peter everything. “No – that’s not … what he wants to do.” The sick, shameful agony stopped the words.   
  
Peter gave him a blank look, but suddenly, in the dim light, Neal could see comprehension come with a dark red flush across his cheeks. All he said was “Wait here.”   
  
Neal sat down at the kitchen table and a sleepy Satchmo ambled over to him, licked his hands before collapsing bonelessly on top of his feet. He thought that was one good way to ensure that he wasn’t going to go anywhere. Neal sat there, waiting for what seemed like an eternity, and finally, there was a light from the hallway, and he could hear Mr. Burke’s deep voice, and then the higher tone of Mrs. Burke. At least they didn’t sound angry. A minute or two later, Peter and his parents came into the kitchen. Someone turned on the light. Peter looked at him and Neal couldn’t quite make out the expression on his face.  
  
“I’m sorry I disturbed you.” Neal looked at his hands.  
  
Peter’s dad sat down next to him. “Peter told me that you’re afraid your stepfather is going to hurt you. Can you tell me what happened, what he did?”   
  
The weird knotted feeling in the pit of Neal’s stomach intensified. “You aren’t going to believe me.”  
  
All he said was “Try me. Just start from the beginning.”  
  
Neal took a deep breath. “The other morning – I think it was Monday – I was taking a shower.” He swallowed and closed his eyes. “When I got out, Vincent Adler was just standing there, staring at me. He was holding my towel and wouldn’t give it to me.”  
  
No one said anything, and Neal’s heart sank. Then Peter’s dad just nodded. “Go on.”  
  
“He stood there – I asked for my towel – and he said I had to come and get it in this weird voice. I didn’t want to go near him. He got a funny look on his face, but he finally put the towel down and walked out of the bathroom.” Neal clenched and unclenched his fists at the memory. “The next night, I woke up and he was sitting on the chair in my bedroom. He was staring at me and breathing really hard. That’s what woke me up. I told him to get out and he did. I locked the door.”  
  
Mrs. Burke sat down on the other side of him and took his hands in hers. “Did you tell your mom?”  
  
“Yeah – fat lot of good that did.” Neal tried not to cry at the memory of that conversation. “She told me not to rock the boat, and just to keep out of Vincent Adler’s way.” He took a deep breath. “She really likes living in a nice, big house with a pool and lots of jewelry and stuff. She doesn’t care about me anymore.”  
  
At least no one told him that wasn’t true.  
  
Peter’s dad then asked, “Did anything else happen?”  
  
“Yeah. I’ve been locking the bathroom door and my bedroom door. Two nights ago, I heard him trying to get into my bedroom; he was pushing and pushing at the doorknob. When I got home from school today – ” Neal remembered that it was after midnight. “Yesterday – he had someone come and change all the doorknobs. There’s no lock on the bathroom door, and my bedroom has a doorknob with a key on the inside, but I don’t have the key. And I can’t move anything in front of the door. All the furniture is too heavy.” Neal sniffled, trying to suck up the tears. “I tried to stay awake tonight, but I couldn’t. I woke up and he was in my bedroom again, and he was staring at me and touching himself. I screamed at him to get out, and I kept screaming. The housekeeper came, but my mom didn’t. He ran out of my room and then I took my bike and my stuff and I left.” He lost the battle with his tears and started to sob. It felt like his insides were tearing apart.   
  
Mrs. Burke hugged him and told him that they’d keep him safe. Neal knew that she meant it, even if it wasn’t possible. He finally stopped crying, and took a few shuddering breaths. He looked up at Peter, figuring that his friend would be disgusted at him. He was shocked to see that Peter was crying a little bit too.  
  
Mr. Burke took his hand. “Neal, listen to me. This is what we are going to do. You are going to go to sleep here tonight – Peter has twin beds. And you will go to school tomorrow, and come home with Peter. You are going stay here until we can figure out how make sure your stepfather can’t hurt you. Ever. Okay?”  
  
“I wanted to go to my Aunt Ellen’s – my dad’s sister. I called her from the pay phone at the gas station. But she’s not home. And I thought that would be the first place he’d look for me.”  
  
“What does your aunt do?”  
  
“She’s a cop with the Westchester County police department now. She was a city cop – a detective – like my dad, but she retired the same year my mom married Vincent Adler. She bought the house I grew up in. It’s on Merry Lane.”  
  
“You did the right thing, Neal. You were smart to come here. And like I said, we’ll make sure you’re okay.”  
  
“How?” He had to ask, and Neal couldn’t help be catch the look that passed between Peter’s parents.  
  
“Don’t worry – trust us, okay?”  
  
Neal nodded. It wasn’t like he really had a choice.  
  
Mrs. Burke stood up. “It’s nearly three in the morning, and you guys have school tomorrow. Peter – can you lend Neal some pjs?”  
  
He felt like he was about to cry again. They were making everything seem so normal, and it wasn’t. But he got up and followed Peter to his bedroom. Mr. Burke gave him one more instruction, “Take Satchmo with you. He’ll be good company.” The Lab got up, his nails clicking on the linoleum floor until they reached the carpeted hallway.  
  
Peter didn’t say anything; he just handed him a set of pjs that looked like a Yankees uniform and Neal went to the bathroom and changed. When he got back, Satchmo was stretched out on the extra bed – the one he was going to sleep in. Peter was sitting Indian-style on his own bed.  
  
“I’m not a perv, you know.” Neal stuck his chin out, trying to feel brave.  
  
“Of course you’re not.”   
  
“I want to kill him. I wish I had my dad’s gun so I could shoot him a million times.”  
  
“Then you’d go to jail and we couldn’t be friends anymore.” Peter said.  
  
“We’re still friends?” Neal whispered.  
  
“Of course we are.” He said that like there was no doubt. Neal sat down on the bed, giving Satchmo a bit of a push. The dog simply rolled on his side, taking up the rest of the space on the bed. Neal giggled. So did Peter. As he tried to get under the covers, there was the indistinct sound of adult voices coming through the wall.  
  
Neal looked at Peter, who had gotten out of bed and jumped up onto his desk to adjust the flaps on a vent. The voices got louder. Peter’s parents were talking.  
  
 _“Honey, I’m going to go see that sonofabitch tomorrow.”  
  
“What are you going to say to him?”  
  
“That if he touches the boy again, I’m going to kill him. That he’ll never see me coming and no one will come and save him, no matter how hard he screams. And that they’ll never find his body.”_  
  
Neal looked at Peter, eyes wide. Peter grinned, clearly proud of his father.  
  
 _“Joe!”  
  
“They still haven’t found Jimmy Hoffa.”_  
  
Neal couldn’t make out Peter’s mom’s reply, and after that, Peter’s dad’s words were indistinct. Peter closed the vents and hopped off the desk. He snapped off the light and got into bed. Neal gave the dog a shove, and the Lab finally shifted enough so he could get his feet under the covers.  
  
Neal tucked his hands under his head and settled down. Even though the bed was unfamiliar and Satchmo took up almost the whole space, he was comfortable, and not a bit sleepy. After a few moments, Neal rolled on his side, facing the other bed. “Peter?”  
  
“Yeah, what?”  
  
“Thanks.”   
  
“Yeah - you’re welcome.” Peter sighed. “You don’t have to worry or be scared anymore. My dad will take care of everything.”


	4. Rubik's Cube

**Junior Year - Rubik’s Cube**  
  
“You’re going to try out for fencing? Does the school even have a fencing team?”  
  
Neal tried to tune out Mozzie’s slightly nasal whine. He had a European history paper to write, as well as a French test and an AP Calculus quiz to study for.  
  
“And why would you want to learn how to kill people? I know you’re into all of the fancy stuff, but I don’t think that ‘fence’ is going to look good on your application to the police academy.”  
  
Neal looked up, annoyed. “It’s fenc _er_ and I don’t really care.”  
  
“But still, if you want to take up a sport that gives you the ability to murder people, why not Riflery and Marksmanship?”   
  
“Shut up, Moz. We’re trying to study here.” Peter tossed a pillow at the little guy. It landed with typical accuracy. Neal had to smile; even when he wasn’t trying, Peter Burke was still an all–star pitcher.  
  
Despite their differences, the three of them were pretty much inseparable; it had been that way since seventh grade.   
  
Neal had known Mozzie longer than Peter. They had bonded over some forbidden art books in the public library when they were in first grade. To this day, Moz insisted that it was pictures of the _Venus de Milo_ and her titties, but Neal thought it was Botticelli’s _Birth of Venus_ and her titties. But it also could have been Edouard Manet’s _Luncheon on the Grass_ and the titties on the naked girl. But it really didn’t matter, they were seven and they bonded over great art. And titties.  
  
Neal looked over at Peter – they’d known each other almost as long, but they hadn’t really been friends until Peter and his dad had rescued him when he was twelve. After three of the most terrifying days of his life, his mom showed up at the Burkes’ house, with all of his stuff, including the really important things like his dad’s picture and badge and medals. Aunt Ellen and Peter’s dad arrived a few minutes later. They sat around the kitchen table and Neal listened, wide-eyed, while Peter’s dad told him what was going to happen.  
  
His mother, all teary-eyed, said that it was okay for him to go live with Aunt Ellen, who would become his legal guardian and he’d never have see Vincent Adler again. Which meant that he’d probably never see his mom again, either.   
  
At the time, he’d been too angry to be sad, but now, sometimes, he missed his mother. She still sent him extravagant Christmas presents and birthday cards with a lot of money and wrote to him a few times a year. About a year after he moved in with Aunt Ellen, she telephoned and said that Vincent was going to work in Tokyo for the next few years, and she was going with him. They had sold the house in Upper Brookville. To Neal’s great relief, he’d never have to go back there.  
  
Neal told his mother to have a good time. He didn’t tell her not to go, though he could almost hear her asking him to ask her to stay.   
  
They’d been gone for almost four years, and Neal sometimes wondered if she was happy. He certainly was, though. He and Aunt Ellen got along really well - she even said they were like forks and knives. When she wasn’t home, he stayed at Peter’s. Mr. and Mrs. Burke became Uncle Joe and Aunt Cathy, and on his thirteenth birthday, they gave him a key to the front door.  
  
But none of this would have been possible without Peter and his friendship. Moz may have been his oldest friend, but Peter was his best friend, his very best friend. Peter didn’t know it, but he’d always be his hero. Neal thought that he’d do anything for Peter; all he had to do was ask.  
  
There were textbooks stacked up on Peter’s bedroom floor (the second twin bed had been moved into what became his bedroom a long time ago). This was Neal’s favorite place to study, and he pulled out the book he needed for the French test. They were reading _Le Misanthrope_ and he was going to have to write a five hundred word essay in French about the play. The test was open book, and he had already read it three times. He decided he was prepared enough, and he tossed the book back into his bag.  
  
The European history paper was also a no-brainer. Quite coincidentally to his French exam, he was writing about the French Renaissance and the reign of the Sun King. The thing would write itself and it wasn’t due until a week from Friday.  
  
That left the Calculus test, and since they were all in the same advanced math class, it would make sense to study for it together.  
  
Except that Moz had given up on commenting about Neal’s extracurricular sports choices (and Neal definitely was going to try out for Riflery and Marksmanship) and was doing his best to solve the Rubik’s cube, muttering to himself, “red – white – yellow corner, blue – green side, red – yellow side”. There would be no getting through to him until he solved the puzzle, or went insane trying.  
  
Neal looked over to Peter, who was concentrating on the English class assignment – _A Tale of Two Cities_. Or trying to. He was flipping the pages back and forth, but it was obvious to Neal that he wasn’t reading the book, and that he was unhappy or upset or angry.   
  
Peter was never moody – or at least he was only rarely. He could be serious, and he was definitely not the type of guy to cut up or joke around, but he didn’t get upset over stuff. So it bothered Neal that something was bothering Peter.   
  
Truth was, Neal spent a lot of time thinking about Peter lately. He was always looking for him in the halls when they didn’t have classes together, and he always made sure they hooked up at lunch and study period. In the mornings, Neal hoofed it the few extra blocks to wait at Peter’s bus stop and did the same thing after school on the days that he wasn’t having dinner with Peter and Aunt Cathy and Uncle Joe. But it was more than just the time they spent together and the hours they were apart. Peter was always in his head, particularly at night. He’d be in bed, Ceci curled up next to him, and he’d be wondering if Peter would like the book he was reading, or if he was still having problems with his French homework, or if he was worried about making the varsity soccer team. Or simply what he was doing at that particular moment.  
  
It was so weird. He wanted to do whatever was needed to make Peter happy. He didn’t know why he needed to make sure that Peter was happy, happy with him, happy that he was always around. And it was so embarrassing, like they were boyfriend and girlfriend.   
  
And of course, he couldn’t tell Peter any of that.   
  
Neal watched Peter for another few minutes, feeling awkward and confused. And he did the only thing he could. He jumped up on the bed and made to strangle Peter, all the while declaiming,   
  


_It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us..._

  
  
“Ugh, get off of me, you dork.” Peter pushed him and Neal landed on the other side of the bed, on top of Moz.  
  
Neal rolled off of Moz and into a pile of sharp plastic. The Rubik’s cube was in pieces, scattered across the carpet. “Hey – look what you did!”   
  
“Stuff it, Mozzie – you pried it apart with a screwdriver.” Neal grinned as he saw Moz shove the tool under the bed. He helped him gather up the pieces and watched as his friend put the puzzle back together, solved.  
  
“That doesn’t count, you know.”  
  
Moz shrugged. “Stupid toy. Would like to see you solve it.”  
  
Neal would have – he’d solved the little puzzle a half–dozen times already – but Mozzie’s ego didn’t need to be deflated.   
  
He hopped back up onto Peter’s bed and plucked the book away. Peter didn’t even fight for it.  
  
“What’s the matter?”  
  
“Nothing.” The deep sigh made it obvious that Peter’s was lying.  
  
“Come on – something’s wrong.” Neal kicked at Peter’s sneakered feet.  
  
Even Mozzie, usually so self–absorbed, picked up on Peter’s distress. “Yeah, what gives? You can tell us.”  
  
Peter sat up and looked from him to Moz and back to him. “I said, nothing’s wrong.”  
  
Neal wasn’t going to take that for an answer. “And you’re a fucking liar. You’ve read the same page of Dickens for the last half hour. The book isn’t that bad.”  
  
Peter dropped the book and gave Neal an indecipherable look. Neal smiled back, hoping to reassure him. “What’s going on? We won’t say anything to anyone, promise.”  
  
Mozzie swore, “We promise. Scout’s honor!”   
  
“You’re not a Scout.” Neal said to Moz, sourly.  
  
“But I could be!”  
  
Neal glared at Moz, who backed down. He turned back to Peter.  
  
Peter sighed. “I think I’m in love.”  
  
Neal froze. For some reason that he couldn’t understand, Peter’s announcement hit him like a punch in the stomach.  
  
Moz jumped on the bed. “Who?” And when Peter didn’t answer right away, he kicked him. “Come on – spill!”  
  
Neal met Peter’s gaze and something passed between them – something that Neal couldn’t, didn’t want to define. Peter dropped his eyes and muttered, “Elizabeth Mitchell.”   
  
Moz groaned, “Ellie?”   
  
Neal didn’t say a word. He felt like he had just been cut to pieces.  
  
“Yeah, Ellie. She’s been … kind of smiling at me all the time and I think I want to ask her out.” Peter looked everywhere but at Neal. “Dunno, maybe go steady.”  
  
“Wow.” Neal blinked. Steady – this was serious. He tried so hard not to be jealous, not to hate Ellie Mitchell, a friend since elementary school.   
  
And then Peter _had_ to ask. “Can you give me some help here?”  
  
All Neal could say was, “Well, I think you have to ask her out for a first date before you go steady.”  
  
Peter’s sigh was of epic proportions. “I know that - but I can’t.”  
  
“Why not?”  
  
“She’s best friends with Diana Berrigan.”  
  
“Oh. Shit.” Moz and Neal said at the same time. Strange, but Neal hadn’t minded when Peter went out with Diana for some reason. Ellie was different. This was different.  
  
“She’s probably told Ellie everything.”  
  
“Maybe not, and maybe Ellie won’t care.” Neal suggested, hoping she’d care.  
  
“She wouldn’t care that I tried to get to second base with her best friend?”  
  
“And got slugged in the ‘nads for your efforts?” Moz contributed.  
  
Neal and Peter both told Moz to shut up.  
  
“What am I going to do?”  
  
Moz came to the rescue, voicing Neal’s own thoughts. “Wait – wait. You said that Ellie’s been smiling at you, right?”  
  
“Yeah, so?”  
  
“Come on, dude – if she’s smiling at you, that must mean either the Dreadful Diana didn’t tell her about you trying to cop a feel, or she doesn’t care.”  
  
Peter sat up, his face brightened. “Yeah, yeah. That makes sense. So – maybe I’ll ask her out for Friday night. Do you think she’s going to want to see Raiders of the Lost Ark?”  
  
Neal swallowed. That was _their_ movie – he and Peter had seen it like every weekend this past summer. “Nah – it’s already been out for months.”   
  
Moz, who had more experience with girls than either of them (he had told them that he made it to third base several times with Sara Ellis, one of the most popular girls in the senior class), offered his own advice. Why don’t you go take her to see ‘The French Lieutenant’s Woman’? I bet she’ll love it. Then take her out for ice cream. That’s what I would do.”   
  
Peter seemed to consider the idea. “Hmmm, sounds good. Just as long as you and Neal don’t show up to torment us.”   
  
Neal didn’t say anything, which was probably for the best. Maybe he’d ask Kate Moreau if she’d like to go out on Saturday night. Maybe for ice cream.  
  
_________________  
  
Peter didn’t know what he was doing here. Well, other than eating ice cream with Ellie Mitchell. Or “El” as she now wanted to be called. He had taken Moz’s advice. They went to see “The French Lieutenant’s Woman,” and frankly, Peter didn’t understand the movie at all. It was strange - really two stories that really didn’t make sense. He was still _uncomfortable_ about that one scene, where Jeremy Irons had sex with Meryl Streep. Peter shifted on the chair, took a spoonful of his sundae and winced.  
  
El looked at him. “You okay?”  
  
He slapped a hand over his face and muttered “Brain freeze.”   
  
El was nice – and they’d known each other forever. They’d gone to elementary school together and were always in a lot of the same classes. Peter dropped his hand and looked at her; she was really pretty, lots of long, dark hair, big blue eyes, nice lips. He let his eyes drift down, nice tits too.   
  
“Peter?”  
  
He looked back up at her face and hoped he wasn’t blushing.  
  
“Didn’t you like the movie?”  
  
He shrugged, “It was okay.”  
  
“So – you really didn’t like it.” She sounded hurt.  
  
“It wasn’t bad – but did you like it?” He sounded like a dork, a total dork.  
  
“I did – it was soooo romantic. And I like Jeremy Irons, he’s really good looking.”  
  
Peter shrugged again, “If you say so.”  
  
El looked down at her ice cream, a disappointed frown curving her lips.  
  
Peter felt like a worm. He couldn’t think of anything to talk about. “Um, have you been studying for the PSATs?”   
  
She gave him a look, like _what flavor of stupid are you?_. “Of course I have been, the test is in less than a month. Di and I have already done five practice exams. I guess you and Neal and Mozzie have been studying, too.”  
  
“No, not really. Moz is refusing to take any standardized tests – you should hear him go on and on about the Power Elite and the Industrial-Military Complex and how it controls everything.” Peter chuckled.  
  
“But what about you and Neal?” El pressed him.  
  
Peter stiffened. “What about me and Neal?”  
  
“Aren’t you two studying together? You are like _always_ together.”  
  
“That’s not true – I’m here with you, aren’t I?” Peter tried not to sound defensive. “And anyway, yeah – we’ve been studying a bit. Neal took a practice exam last week and got a 240. He says he doesn’t need to study anymore.”  
  
El blinked. “Wow. I always knew he was smart – I mean he skipped a grade and everything and he’s taking every advanced class, but that’s like genius level.”  
  
Peter didn’t say that he was in all of the same advanced level classes too. “Yeah – he’s really smart. And he wants to be a cop.” Peter shook his head; he thought that Neal was wasting his life. He could be _anything_. Just because his dad – his real dad – was a cop didn’t mean that Neal shouldn’t try for something better. His own dad was a builder – in construction – and he’d take a two-by-four to Peter’s ass if Peter said he wanted to follow in his footsteps. It was bad enough that they were already arguing about Peter’s desire to try out for the minor leagues.  
  
“Peter?” El peered at him from under her bangs. His attention had wandered.  
  
“Sorry – you were saying?”  
  
“How did you do on the practice test?”  
  
Peter really didn’t want to say.  
  
“Come on, tell me.” El tried to tease it out of him. “Do you want me to guess?”  
  
He thought about it. “No, don’t.”  
  
“If you want, you can study with me and Diana. We’re going to do another practice test tomorrow.”  
  
The thought of getting within range of Diana Berrigan’s fists was terrifying, so he told El the truth. “I got a 240, too. I did three exams though. Just to make sure the first one wasn’t a fluke.”  
  
El didn’t say anything at first. “You’re an asshole, Peter Burke.”  
  
He swallowed hard. “Yeah, sorry.” Peter stirred the remains of his sundae; the liquefied dregs of vanilla and hot fudge were unappetizing. Sort of like this date. He had never planned on asking Ellie – El – out on a date. But he had to say something the other day.  
  
This thing with Neal was getting too weird. He was always thinking about Neal, and when he wasn’t thinking about Neal, he was with Neal. They had six classes together, plus the bus rides, plus all the time they spent studying and hanging out. He figured that in a basic twenty-four hour day, he spent fifteen hours with Neal. If Neal’s aunt was working overtime, Neal was at their house and that would make it twenty hours. If it wasn’t for the fact that Neal was on different sports teams and taking advanced French and some art classes, they’d be together for every moment of every school day.  
  
He didn’t mind – Neal was his best friend. But sometimes, he couldn’t control his brain. His whacked out, perverted brain.  
  
Like the other day, when Moz was over and they were supposed to be studying. He was looking at Neal, sitting on the floor and bent over his book. He had gotten a haircut the other day – it was short in the back and Peter couldn’t stop staring at the nape of Neal’s neck, the back of his ears. His shoulders under his tee shirt. He tried to read _A Tale of Two Cities_ , but he just kept watching Neal over the edge of the book.   
  
At least he didn’t get a hard-on.   
  
Not like the other night, when Neal was staying over and he walked out of the bathroom in his boxer shorts. It wasn’t that Peter could see his dick (he couldn’t) but just seeing Neal, nearly naked, made him hard as a rock in like, two seconds.   
  
Peter never forgot about The Night: the night that Neal ran away and came to him for help and he told him and his parents about what his stepfather tried to do to him. And now Peter was doing the exact same thing. He was getting aroused by Neal, he wanted to do things to Neal – probably the same things that Vincent Adler wanted to do to him. And he was disgusted with himself.   
  
Neal was his best friend, the best and smartest guy he knew. He was funny and loyal and you’d think that with everything he had gone through, that he’d be a mess, a head case. But Neal wasn’t. _He_ was the head case, the freak. The faggot.  
  
Maybe it would have been okay – or at least less terrible – if he was only fixated on Neal. But it seemed that he really was gay. He tried not to look, but seeing the guys in the shower made him excited. He tried not to, but he got a boner when he saw Clint Jones walking around the locker room without anything on but his flip-flops. It was the same with Edward Ruiz, too.   
  
Hell, the only reason why he touched Diana Berrigan’s tits was to see if he liked girls too. And he did, sort of.   
  
So, when Neal pounced on him, all worried, he said the first thing that came to his mind, that he wanted to date Ellie Mitchell. Neal got this weird look on his face, though, and Peter wondered if he had wanted to ask Ellie out too.  
  
“Peter?” El touched his hand. “You okay? You look upset. I really don’t think you’re an asshole.”  
  
 _But I am._ “Let’s get out of here.” There was a line of people waiting for a table. Peter paid for the sundaes and they squeezed their way out of the shop. Even though it was only mid-September, the evening was chilly and El snuggled against him. He draped an arm around her shoulder as they started to walk home. Since it was Saturday, there were a lot of kids still out, most of whom Peter knew by name. He never felt like he was important or anything, even though he was the captain of the varsity baseball team and in the Honor Society, but tonight – at this moment, and despite all his conflicted feelings – he felt proud of himself. He had a date with the prettiest girl in the school and everyone could see that.  
  
“Hey look, it’s Neal.” El pointed to two guys across the street, in front of the Whalen Drugstore. Someone was getting pushed around, and there was a girl huddled up against the wall.  
  
“Shit – you’re right.” He looked at El – she was his date and he couldn’t just run off. But he couldn’t leave Neal. He was tangling with Andy Woods, who had been a bully and a creep since the third grade. There had been rumors floating around that he was also dealing and doing drugs, and Peter wouldn’t have been surprised that they were true.  
  
She smiled at him. “Go – go. I’ll wait here.”  
  
Peter looked at her standing there, shivering a little, and he was grateful. “Here, hold on to this.” Peter draped his letterman jacket over her shoulders, rolled up his sleeves and crossed the street. “What’s going on here?”  
  
Woods had Neal dangling by the collar. “Stay out of this, Burke – this is between me and your pal Caffrey. Mr. Symmetrical here stole my girlfriend.”  
  
“I didn’t steal your girlfriend, she dumped your ass, you psychotic ape.” Neal wasn’t helping matters, nor was Kate, who looked like she was about to bolt.  
  
“Let him go, Woods.”  
  
“No way – no one takes what’s mine.” He shook Neal, who was struggling. Andy Woods was big – about six inches taller than Neal and probably outweighed him by fifty pounds. Neal grabbed at Andy’s wrist and twisted the skin. Andy dropped him and Neal came up swinging. But he missed and Woods shoved him against the brick wall. Kate Moreau had run off, and she was nowhere to be seen, of course.   
  
If Peter didn’t do something, Neal would get beaten to a pulp. He could throw himself into the fight. It would, undoubtedly, be fun, but El was waiting for him and Peter didn’t think that she’d talk to him again if he got beaten up. Instead of tossing around a few punches, Peter tried to diffuse the situation. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Woods.”  
  
“And why not?” He had Neal in a chokehold, and he was turning blue.  
  
“His aunt – who he lives with – is a captain in the county PD. She’ll arrest your ass and throw you in jail. She’ll make sure your paperwork gets so lost, we’ll all be at our tenth reunion before they find you.” Peter tried to sound nonchalant and deadly serious at the same time. He hoped it worked.   
  
And it did, surprisingly. Peter had to give credence to the rumors – maybe Woods didn’t want to risk even the slightest possibility of jail. He let go of Neal, who fell to his knees, gagging and gasping for air.   
  
“And for the record, Andy – you don’t own anyone. Lincoln freed the slaves, remember? If Kate Moreau wants to date Neal, she can. You lay a finger on her, on any girl, you’ll answer to me.”  
  
Woods gave him a disgusted look, spat at his feet and stalked off. Peter looked back to make sure he wasn’t harassing anyone, particularly El. She was still standing there, looking like a little princess, draped in his jacket. He smiled and she ran across the street to join them.  
  
She ran right past Peter and bent over Neal, who was still trying to get his breath back. “Are you okay?”  
  
He nodded and got up. “Fine, just fine.” Neal turned around, apparently looking for Kate.  
  
“She ran off. Sorry.”  
  
Neal shrugged.   
  
“I didn’t know you and Kate were dating,” El commented.  
  
 _I didn’t know either – and I thought we were best friends._ Peter swallowed his jealousy.  
  
“We aren’t – I saw her on Friday and just asked her if she wanted to go out - nothing serious. We were going to go get some ice cream when we ran into that asshole.”  
  
“Oh.” The relief he felt left Peter inarticulate.   
  
El tucked her hand through his arm and smiled up at him. “You are my hero.”  
  
“Mine too.” Neal gave him an odd look that he couldn’t decipher. There was gratitude there, and something else. Bitterness? Sadness? “Enjoy the rest of your date, guys.” He turned off of Main Street, much in the same direction that Woods had gone.  
  
El bit her lip and made a worried sound.  
  
“Neal!” Peter called out. “Wait up.”  
  
He stopped, turned around and shoved his hands in his pockets. “What now?”  
  
El took matters into her own hands. “We’ll walk home with you, okay?”  
  
Neal looked at her and then gave Peter a disgusted look. He saw right through her ploy. Peter silently begged him to understand. “Okay, fine.”  
  
El reached out and tucked her hand through Neal’s arm. “This is nice, I feel a little like Dorothy walking down the Yellow Brick Road with her heroes.”  
  
Neal met his eyes, and sort of smiled. Peter smiled back and Neal’s half-smile turned into a full one. Under the streetlights and the blue-green neon from the drugstore sign, Neal’s eyes blazed. Peter’s stomach did a little flip, and then a bigger one.   
  
He was some fucked-up kind of hero.


	5. Under the Bleachers - Part One

**Senior Year – Under the Bleachers**  
  
Peter had been told by too many people that this was supposed to be the best year of his life.   
  
He took Driver’s Ed this past fall and his dad took him for his road test the day he turned seventeen. On Fridays, he was allowed to take Mom’s car and drive to school. He was going steady with Elizabeth Mitchell and she was the best girlfriend ever. He could spend hours listing all the great things about her and why he really, really liked her. His grades were stellar, he was a National Merit Scholar and got over 1500 on the SATs. There were scouts looking at him from a few Major League teams, and there were acceptance letters from both Harvard _and_ Yale sitting on his desk.  
  
It was the final spring before college, and life was wonderful.   
  
Except that it wasn’t. All of the things that were supposed to matter felt hollow and meaningless. Peter was just going through the motions, pretending to be happy. Six months ago, he dumped his best friend like a bag of garbage, and nothing could fix that.  
  


_  
“Shove off, Caffrey. I’m sick and tired of you hanging around, cramping my style.”_

_Neal stood there, blue eyes wide with shock._

_Peter raised his voice, so everyone in the cafeteria could hear him. “You’re a fucking useless asshole, and I’m tired of always coming to your rescue. I can’t even go out on a date without you hanging around.”_

_Neal didn’t say a word, but the look on his face – the dreadful hurt – spoke volumes._

_“If you’re looking for company, go play with that little creep, Mozzie.”_

_Neal finally said something. “Mozzie’s your friend, too.”_

_“My friend? You’re crazy – I let him hang with me because of you, and since I’m done with **you** , I’m done with him too.”_

_A detached part of his brain watched with fascination as Neal turned bright red, then icy white. There were no tears; Neal was in absolute control of himself. No one in the cafeteria said a word as Neal turned on his heel and left. Kate, Neal’s on-and-off girlfriend chased after him, and Peter sat down next to Clint and across from Edward Ruiz._

_As he pulled out his lunch from his bag, Clint stared at him. “What just happened? You just told off your best friend.”_

_“Caffrey’s not my best friend. He’s a loser and a dork and I’m tired of him hanging around all the time.” Peter was surprised at how steady he sounded._

_Ruiz gave him a considering look. “That was cold, Burke – to dump him like that, in front of everyone.”_

_“Yeah, well he had to get the message somehow.” Peter bit into his sandwich, the ham tasted like shit. He chewed and swallowed and took another bite, and another, until it was finished. Like him and Neal._

  
  
It had been six months since he told Neal to shove off, six months of hell. His mother kept asking him about his ex-friend, she was worried about him, about both of them. His dad, thankfully, didn’t pry. But he did give him Lecture Number 56 – the one about peer pressure. He was probably worried that Peter was doing drugs, considering all the time he spent alone in his bedroom.   
  
Forget about drugs – Peter was constantly, obsessively jacking off like a perv at a porno while thinking about his best friend.   
  
Just the thought of that – of touching himself while fantasizing about Neal – was enough to drive him crazy and enough to make him hard. _Stop it, stop it, stop it._ Peter rolled over, burying his face in his pillow and trying not to think about anything. When that didn’t work (and it never did), he tried recalling logarithm rules and theorems and calculating the square root of random five digit numbers. He got control of himself, barely, when the phone next to his bed rang.  
  
“Hello?”  
  
“Hey, Peter – it’s Elizabeth.”  
  
“Hey, El.” At the sound of his girlfriend’s voice, his arousal evaporated. They chatted for a while, making plans for the weekend. There was a movie they both wanted to see, but it was only playing at a theatre a few towns over. Peter said he’d try to get the car, and El suggested that they tag up with Diana and Clint and Christie. She didn’t suggest Neal or Kate or Moz, thankfully. She had remained friends with Neal and was even better friends with Mozzie, despite Peter. All she said was that Neal needed all the friends he could get. Peter didn’t say anything – he agreed.  
  
They hung up and Peter just lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling. There was a soft knock on the door, and his mom asked, “Can I come in?”  
  
Peter hopped up and opened the door. He didn’t keep it locked; his folks were good about respecting his privacy – they never came in without asking.   
  
“What’s up?”  
  
“Can we talk?” His mom had a worried look on her face and Peter’s stomach twisted.  
  
“What’s wrong?”  
  
She sat down at his desk, a serious look in her eyes. “I ran into Ellen Caffrey this morning.”  
  
The knot in his stomach pulled tighter, and Peter tried to remember if he had seen Neal in school. He had made sure that they didn’t have any classes together this year. “And?”  
  
“She told me that Neal’s mom is back in New York.”  
  
Peter struggled to keep control of everything – his worry, his anger. “And that pervert stepfather, of course.”  
  
“Actually, no.”  
  
“No? She dumped his ass finally?”  
  
“Vincent Adler died. Ellen said he had a heart attack and dropped dead in the middle of some big meeting. She wants to be Neal’s mother again. Apparently she’s going to buy a house in the area and wants Neal to come live with her. Adler left her a very wealthy widow, as if that really matters.”  
  
Peter thought of a dozen things to say about that – but they all employed words he couldn’t use in front of his mother. Words like bitch and whore and fuck-money. What he did say was, “Why are you telling me this?”  
  
His mom sighed. “I don’t know what happened between you and Neal – he was your best friend one day, and then the next you’re telling us you never want to see him again. You wouldn’t tell us why and your dad and I … well… we didn’t want to pry. But it puzzled us – you two were inseparable for years, and Neal was like another son to your dad and me. We respect your decision not to be friends with him but we’ve never stopped caring about Neal.”  
  
Peter blinked. He hoped his mom didn’t see the tears. “That’s … that’s good.”  
  
“Ellen says that Neal’s kind of freaked out, he doesn’t really want to see her and he’s been angry and upset.” His mom didn’t say anything for a minute. “She was hoping that maybe Neal could stay here for a week or two – until things settle down with his mom.”  
  
He froze. The idea of Neal sleeping in the bedroom next door was unbearable. “No. I don’t want him here.”   
  
“Sweetheart? Why? What went on between you that you don’t want to let us help him?”  
  
“Nothing, I just don’t want him here.” His voice sounded strange to him, like it was from another person.  
  
His mother blinked. “I wish I knew what happened to the boy who woke us up in the middle of the night to tell us his friend was in trouble and needed our help. You’ve changed, Peter. I don’t know if it’s because you think you’re a big shot now, but I don’t I like it. I never hope to be more disappointed in you than I am now.”  
  
She got up and left, closing the door behind her. Peter sat there, shame rolling through him. Shame at his betrayal of a friend in need, shame at his own perverted longings. He buried his face in his hands, helpless to do anything except cry. The tears started falling, seeping through his fingers. He tried to stop, but he couldn’t – hell, weren’t fags supposed to cry all the time? Shudders wracked him and he felt like something was tearing inside him, something that would never heal. _If you knew what I was, you’d be far more disappointed._  
  
__________________________  
  
The clock on the classroom wall ticked in syncopation to the play timer. Neal and Moz, the sole members of Chess Club, sat in the warm classroom, hunched over the board. “Queen takes Knight, checkmate.” Moz slapped the timer button on the chess clock, leaned back in his chair and looked at Neal. “Sloppy play, _mon frère_. We in Chess Club don’t play sloppy if we want to get the girls.”  
  
Neal didn’t say anything. There was nothing to say. He knocked his king over, the traditional gesture of defeat. His play _was_ sloppy; his head just wasn’t in the game.   
  
“If you don’t pull it together, you’re going to get your ass kicked at the tournament next weekend. You don’t want to let down Chess Club, do you?”  
  
“I know, Moz. I know. It’s just …”  
  
“Everything?”  
  
“Yeah – everything.” Neal was still in a state of shock. A week ago, just as he and Aunt Ellen were about to have dinner, the doorbell rang. He dropped the cutlery on the table and went to see who it was. He should have checked the peephole, but instead, he just opened the door.   
  
It was his mother. He hadn’t seen her in almost five years, but he still recognized her. Blue eyes like his, but her hair bleached blonde and carefully set, and she was wrapped in an ankle length fur coat, despite the warm April evening. She smiled at him, tentatively. _“Neal, baby – it’s me.”_  
  
“Your mom still hanging around?”  
  
“Yeah, and it like she’s not going any place anytime soon. She wants us to be a family now.”  
  
“What do you want?”  
  
“From her? Nothing.”  
  
“You aren’t going to forgive her, are you?”  
  
“She would have let my stepfather molest me – how the hell do I forgive that? She was more interested in all the stuff he was giving her than she was in me. As far as I’m concerned, she can disappear for good.”  
  
Moz gave him a look, and Neal knew everything that he wasn’t saying. “I know I’m lucky to have a mom – but come on – what would you do?”  
  
“Dunno what’s worse – not having any family, or having one like yours. Like your mom.” Moz took off his glasses, wiped them and put them back on. “But sometimes, you have to forgive mistakes.”  
  
Neal shrugged. It wasn’t like he had never missed his mother in the years since she went to Japan. But for her to expect him to just forgive and forget what had happened was another story altogether.   
  
Moz set up the board for another match, and Neal couldn’t squelch the thought that he wished he could talk to Peter. Moz was a great friend, he was loyal and trustworthy and had never steered him wrong, but he wasn’t _Peter_. Moz saw things differently – everything was reflected through a kaleidoscope of conspiracy, betrayal and abandonment. Peter, though, was something else. The guy you wanted at your back in a fight, the person to whom you could entrust all your secrets.  
  
But Peter was gone – at least from his life.   
  
“You want to play black this time?”  
  
“Sure.” It really didn’t matter, none of this did. Not the chess game, not the tournament; hell, not even his mother’s bizarre reappearance in his life. Everything was mapped out – Neal had his life all planned. He had mailed off his acceptance letter to Harvard last week – there was no question he was accepting that offer. He’d do his undergrad there, then law school, then the FBI. His dream of following in his father’s footsteps lasted until eleventh grade and a field trip to Washington, D.C.  
  
While Moz called him Quisling and Cockroach and a Suit in Training, Peter had been thrilled by this change in plans. He had always thought that Neal would be a great cop, but that he could be something better. Neal grimaced at the memory – until Peter blew up at him six months ago, that was the only thing they had ever fought about. There was absolutely nothing wrong with being a cop – a good cop. But Peter was apparently a bit of a snob – even though his father worked in construction – and he thought that Neal should be doing something that would change the world. He didn’t understand that saving one life was just as important.   
  
Moz, taking white, made the first move, and Neal made his opening gambit, intending to use the Alekhine Defense, which Bobby Fischer had employed in Game 17 of the 1972 Championship. But he was distracted by his own thoughts, and then Moz started humming _Bohemian Rhapsody_. Halfway through the game, Neal tipped over his king, forfeiting the game. “I’m done, Moz. I can’t concentrate.”  
  
If he thought Moz was going to give him an argument, he was mistaken. “Want to come home with me? I’ll cook dinner, this way you don’t have to deal with your mother.”  
  
Neal appreciated the offer. Moz lived by himself these days, in an old cottage on the Walker estate a few miles from the house where Neal had once lived with his mother and Adler. Moz had made a deal with the new owners – some mad Russians – to watch the property, feed their dogs and pick up the mail, in exchange for a roof over his head and no questions about his age asked.   
  
“Thanks, but no. I’m going to go to the library, work on my paper for AP Latin.” He needed some space – Moz was great, but sometimes he was also just too much.  
  
“You do know that that’s a dead language.”   
  
“Moz, don’t start.” His friend was trying to get him a bit riled up – to forget about his other problems. It wasn’t going to work.   
  
“Just thought I’d let you know.”  
  
Neal smiled. “Thanks. I appreciate it – I appreciate everything.”  
  
Moz waved him off, content to study the game in progress. Neal stepped out into the hallway and came face-to-face with his current bête noir and former best friend. They hadn’t been alone together in months, and Neal couldn’t let the moment go without saying something.   
  
“Hey there.”  
  
Peter grunted something.  
  
Neal persevered. “How are you doing?” He not-so-subtly blocked Peter’s passage.  
  
“Fine, Caffrey. Get out of my way.”  
  
When Peter tried to dodge around him, Neal grabbed his arm.  
  
“Let go of me.”  
  
“What did I do, Peter? I don’t understand – if you thought I was cutting in on you and Elizabeth, you just had to say something. I didn’t mean …”  
  
“Shut up, just shut the fuck up.”  
  
Peter tried to push by him, and Neal wouldn’t move. He had never thought of Peter as hulking or physically threatening, but for the first time, he felt a little intimidated by Peter’s size.  
  
“Just tell me what I did wrong, maybe I can fix it.”  
  
“I said, let go of me.”  
  
Neal did, and Peter stalked away. But he had to try one last time. “I’m sorry, Peter. For whatever I’ve done, I’m sorry.”   
  
Peter stopped, turned back, and hope rose in Neal like the dawn.   
  
“Caffrey – you have got to stop being such a goddamned girl and chasing after me. Stop it, all right? Get a life.” He turned away, and Neal watched, disbelieving, as Peter pushed through the front doors and out into the afternoon sun.  
  
Neal stood there, frozen, as understanding hit him like an ICBM. _He knows, he knows what I feel about him. That’s why. He knows I’m gay and that’s why he wants nothing to do with me._ Horrified and ashamed, he ran to the boy’s room and into a stall, vomiting until he had the dry heaves. And then Neal started to cry, exhausted and in pain. He’d never wanted Peter to know – Peter was his best friend, the person he trusted the most in this world, and the one person he never, ever wanted to hurt. He didn’t know how long he sat on the tile floor, broken.  
  
“Kid, you okay?” The clatter of a maintenance cart and the smell of ammonia brought Neal around. The janitor was standing over him. Neal got up, his legs were shaky, and he clung to the wall before making his way over to the sinks.   
  
“Yeah – I’m okay now. I think I had something bad for lunch.” Neal splashed some cold water on his face and looked in the mirror. He didn’t recognize himself.   
  
“Do you want me to call your folks? Your mom?”  
  
 _Hell, no._ But he remembered his manners. “No – no thank you. I’ll be fine. Going to catch the late bus.”  
  
“Okay, but if you’re not sure…”  
  
“No, but thanks. Really.”  
  
He made it to the bus with a few seconds to spare and was grateful that his mother wasn’t at the house. He just couldn’t deal with her at this point. She really wasn’t that bad, and she was trying to give him time and space, but the hopeful look in her eyes was just too much. He couldn’t forgive and forget. Not now. Maybe not ever.  
  
He crawled into bed and laid there, curtains closed, but the late afternoon sunlight was streaming in from the gap in the fabric. Neal watched the progressing of that thin slice of light as it cut across the bed. He wished it would cut him in half, cleanly, without any mess or fuss or stain. The light finally faded away and the room was dark and warm. Ceci nosed the door opened and jumped up on the bed. She was an old cat now, but she still knew when he needed her. She butted her head against him, purring like a train engine, not minding the hot tears that dropped off his cheeks and into her fur.   
  
He tried to tell himself that it would be all right. He would be all right. He would.  
  
_________________________  
  
Much to his aunt and his mother’s concern, Neal stayed in bed for three days, coming out only to use the bathroom. He thought about staying in his room forever, except that Moz paid a visit.  
  
He sat on Neal’s bed, like some inscrutable elfin tailor. Ceci had turned traitor and curled up in Mozzie’s lap. Neal rolled over, hoping they’d both leave if he ignored them.  
  
“I heard a rumor today.”  
  
“Why should I care?”  
  
“It’s a juicy one.”  
  
“Since when do you deign to listen to rumors, Moz?”   
  
“Well, it really wasn’t so much a rumor as a threat. And I wasn’t so much listening as overhearing. People don’t really tell me things outright; I just harvest the information as it floats around the ether. ”  
  
“You should think about going to work for the CIA. Being a spy seems right up your alley.”   
  
“No way, man. Those spooks kill each other for the least little thing. Didn’t you ever see ‘Three Days of the Condor’?”  
  
“I was being ironic, Moz.”  
  
“Oh, it didn’t come across that way.”  
  
Neal sighed, sat up and turned on the light, wincing a little at the sudden brightness. Moz wasn’t going anywhere until he shared the rumor, and Neal didn’t feel up to talking to Moz in the dark. “So – what’s your exciting little tidbit?”  
  
“You look like shit, man. What happened to you?”  
  
Neal ran his hands through his hair, but after three days, that probably wasn’t going to help. “Stomach bug. I’m all right now. What gives?”  
  
“Well…”   
  
“Mozzie, come on.” His friend was going to milk this for all it was worth.  
  
Moz grinned, and there was something a little evil in it. “Normally, I dislike _schadenfreude_ , but this is just too good to not pass on. Remember our friend Peter Burke – your former best friend?”  
  
Neal’s blood ran cold. “Of course I do.”  
  
“Well, it seems that our intrepid Year Book Photographer, Matthew Keller – ”  
  
“You hate Keller.”  
  
“Oh, that doesn’t matter for the purposes of this exercise.” Moz dismissed his comment. “It seems that he’s got pictures of Peter Burke in the boys’ locker room after a baseball game.”  
  
“Pictures of him, what? Naked?”  
  
“More than naked. It seems that Peter’s got some rather unusual tastes.”  
  
Neal stared at Moz, not following this conversation at all.  
  
“Keller says he’s got pictures of Burke getting his dick sucked.”  
  
He said the first thing that came to him. “Elizabeth snuck into the boys’ locker room after a baseball game? That’s pretty stupid.”  
  
“You moron – he wasn’t getting blown by a girl!”  
  
Neal just blinked.  
  
“It seems that your ex-best friend is a queer. And unless he pays up, Keller’s going to tell everyone. He’s going to make copies of the pictures and pass them around. Keller told Peter to meet him under the bleachers at 5 o’clock tomorrow afternoon, or else.”  
  
Neal didn’t remember to breathe. _Peter’s gay! Peter’s gay? Then why does he hate me?_ He bolted out of bed, energized, terrified. “We’ve got to stop him. This will kill Peter if anyone finds out.”  
  
Moz grabbed Neal’s arm. “Stop him, why? After what Burke did to you? This is the perfect revenge. You hate him, right?”  
  
“No – no it’s not. And even if I hated Peter, I wouldn’t want that to happen to him. We have to stop Keller.”  
  
“Come on, Neal – don’t be such a fucking saint. You don’t have to do anything. We don’t.”  
  
“Moz –” Neal took a deep breath. “You don’t understand. I’m … I’m like Peter. I’m gay. Too.” There. He said it. He came out. Just saying the words, just sharing the secret, even though it was only with Moz was a relief of sorts.   
  
Moz looked at him like he had suddenly grown another head. “No you’re not – you and Kate. You and Lauren. You and Taryn and Alex and Jennifer and practically every girl in our class. You’re not into guys.”  
  
Neal gave Moz a twisted smile. “And all the while I’ve been wishing they were all Peter, okay?”  
  
Moz scratched his head. “How long?”  
  
Neal shrugged. “Forever, probably. At least since ninth grade.”  
  
“Did you ever tell him?”  
  
He shook his head. “I’m gay, not crazy. I had no idea he was too.” _And I thought he hated me because he knew I was gay._ “Do you know where Keller’s keeping those pictures?”  
  
“He probably has them in his locker.”  
  
“Not at his home?”  
  
“Nah – Matthew has like six brothers, he doesn’t have any privacy at home.”  
  
“Can we get them out of his locker?”  
  
“Is bubblegum my favorite flavor of ice cream?” Moz grinned, falling into the spirit of the rescue, and seemingly unconcerned about Neal’s revelations.   
  
Mozzie’s simple acceptance felt like a ton of bricks had been lifted off his shoulders. He grinned like an idiot, took a deep breath and got a whiff of his own stink. “Okay – okay. Let me take a shower and we’ll do this, right?”  
  
“Yeah – you’d better. Otherwise they’d smell you coming even if you were downwind.”  
  
Neal met Moz outside, his still-wet hair slicked back, wearing a black tee shirt and worn jeans.   
  
“All you need is a motorcycle jacket, and you could pass for Danny Zucko.”  
  
“Huh?”  
  
“From ‘Grease,’ remember?”  
  
“Oh.” Neal went to get his bicycle, but Moz opened the passenger side door of an old VW Beetle that was parked in front of the house. “Since when do you have a driver’s license?” Moz couldn’t drive, legally. Like Neal, he was still sixteen.  
  
“Don’t ask so many questions, Neal. And as if I’m going to allow myself to be added to the universal database. No one’s going to track me for the rest of my life.”  
  
Neal shook his head, but got in the car anyway. His friend was a pretty good driver, and they made it to the high school in one piece.   
  
“Do you know where Keller’s locker is?” Neal thought it was in the corridor closest to the science labs and turned down that hallway.   
  
Moz snagged him by the back of his jeans. “Not that way, he’s got a special locker downstairs, near the print shop. That’s where he’ll be keeping it.”  
  
They used the back staircase and slinked in via the maintenance rooms, which were right across from all of the shop classrooms, and the darkroom, and hopefully Keller’s extra locker. Except for the light and noise coming from the auto shop, the area was empty. It was after four, and only the gear heads were still hanging around.  
  
“Do you know the number, or are we going to have to get into all of these?” Neal looked at the bank of narrow lockers – an even dozen. “I hope you’re breaking and entering skills have improved since you tried to liberate those candy bars a few years ago.”  
  
“My B and E skills have definitely improved since eighth grade, but there’s no need – got the number and the combo right here.” Moz waved a small white piece of paper at him before making a beeline to locker 5132. “The office secretary has to take way too may bathroom breaks since she got pregnant.”  
  
Something occurred to Neal, something rather wonderful. “You were going to do this all along, whether I agreed or not?”  
  
Moz ducked his head, looking a bit like an embarrassed turtle. “Yeah, well – I know Peter was a shit to you, and I don’t know why. But no one deserves to have their private business aired – especially like this.” He started working the combination.  
  
Neal thought he was going to cry. “It doesn’t bother you that Peter’s gay, that I’m …”  
  
Moz looked up from the dial. “That you’re gay, too? Nah – and for the record, I always thought you two were made for each other. This sort of just proves me right.”  
  
“And everyone knows how much you love to be proven right,” Neal said with a watery chuckle.  
  
“Yeah.” Moz gave the dial one last twist and opened the latch. ‘Bingo!” The metal clank was loud in the empty hallway, but it wasn’t an unfamiliar sound, so hopefully no one was going to wonder.   
  
“Is this the right locker?” There was a camera and a whole bunch of folders and envelopes inside. Moz pulled one out.   
  
“It is – look.” He showed Neal a bunch of black and white pictures of his classmates engaged in after school activities. “Hey – here’s Chess Club!”  
  
It was a photo of the two of them and a chessboard. “Very good, Moz – now let’s find the ones he took of Peter.”  
  
Of course, the incriminating pictures were in an envelope at the bottom of the pile. He took a quick look and was suddenly, blindingly furious. How dare Matthew Keller take pictures of such a private moment and use them to hurt Peter. How dare Peter let someone else suck his dick - didn’t he know that Neal would have done that for him with joy?   
  
“Neal?” Moz interrupted his train of thought.   
  
“Yeah, yeah. Sorry.” Clipped to the stack of photos was a glassine envelope with the negative. Or what Neal hoped was the negative. “You have a penlight?”  
  
Moz dug into his pocket and pulled out a small square flashlight on a string. It looked like it was the one he had gotten when Aunt Ellen took them to the circus a few years back. “Hey, what do you want? It still works.”  
  
Neal didn’t bother to comment. He held up the brown strip to the bright light and looked at it. “This is it. Get me another negative.”  
  
“Good idea, don’t want Matthew to know that it was taken. Not until he has to know.” Moz snagged a similar size piece of film from another file and Neal replaced it under the paperclip.   
  
“But what about the photos?” There were at least ten copies.  
  
“Leave the top one, and use these to fill in for the rest.” Moz handed him a bunch of pictures of the marching band at Homecoming. Neal stuffed everything back into the envelope, made sure that it was sealed just the same way. Just as he was about to put it back in the locker, Moz let out a low whistle.  
  
“And what do we have here?” He pulled out a bunch of magazines – skin mags. These weren’t Playboy or Penthouse or Juggs. “Do you believe this?” Moz handed him one – it had a big, muscled guy on the cover, with a mustache and a perm and a tiny swimsuit. Neal flipped through it, and gasped. He couldn’t believe his eyes. It was filled with pictures of naked men, some alone, some with other guys. And all of them had hard dicks.   
  
“Seems that Keller has the same tastes you do.”  
  
Neal gritted his teeth. He was nothing like Matthew Keller. “Put these back, we can use them. Blackmailer, meet blackmail.”  
  
Moz grinned at him. “Neal – I am so proud of you.”  
  
They put everything back and organized the contents so that nothing looked like it was disturbed. Mozzie closed it and spun the dial a few times and then deliberately set it back to 27.  
  
“Huh?”  
  
“That’s the number it was at before we opened it. Keller might check it to make sure no one’s been inside.”  
  
Neal laughed. “Moz – anyone ever tell you that you’re paranoid?”  
  
His friend blinked at him owl-like. “You know the saying, just because you’re paranoid…”  
  
“Yeah, and I believe you, so let’s book.”  
  
They snuck back out of the school and sat in Mozzie’s car. Neal put the strip of negative in his wallet and looked at the pictures. The guy getting his dick sucked was definitely Peter, but he wasn’t sure who the dick-sucker was. He didn’t want to look at them, but he couldn’t help himself. There was only one photo - it was enlarged, the image grainy, but it was clearly Peter. Naked in a shower stall. There was a guy on his knees in front of him and he was sucking on Peter’s cock. Even in profile, even with the bad lighting and the poor quality of the picture, it was clear that Peter was enjoying himself. The look of ecstasy was unmistakable. Neal was a little sick and a little aroused. He wanted to be the guy on his knees in front of Peter. He should be the one worshipping that body, that cock. It was so _fucking_ unfair.  
  
“Let me see.” Moz made a grab for the photos.  
  
Neal kept them away. “No – you don’t need to see these.”   
  
Moz tried to grab them again. “I should see them – just so I can bear witness.”   
  
“For what?”   
  
“That they exist and that they are in our possession.”   
  
That did make sense, sort of. Neal handed them over. Moz flicked through them, and handed them back with the comment, “Your boyfriend is most generously endowed.”  
  
“Peter’s not my boyfriend.” Neal couldn’t keep the hope and the bitterness out of his voice. He was still reeling from everything.   
  
“Not yet, but he will be.”  
  
Neal didn’t want to think ahead that far. “Let’s just deal with one thing at a time, okay?” But Neal allowed himself to hope, and that tiny bit of joy soared like a bird in flight. If just for a little while. He didn’t want to let himself believe - only to be shot down.


	6. Under the Bleachers - Part Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains explicit sexual contact between two persons below eighteen years old.

Peter was ruined. Completely and utterly ruined.   
  
_That’s what happens when you let someone suck your dick. Especially in a semi-public locker room._   
  
Matthew Keller told him he had pictures of him and some guy on his knees, giving him a blow job. That would probably be Avery Philips, the new catcher on the varsity baseball team. He had transferred in last fall and made the squad during open tryouts. Peter hadn’t really taken notice of the kid - he was only a junior - until after the first practice session of the season.   
  
They were scrubbing up after an inter-squad game, and Avery had given him a look. The Look. Peter wasn’t stupid and he wasn’t naive. A guy looks at your cock before he looks at your face and you know that he’s not going to be trying to poach your girlfriend. It wasn’t until the third home game, when Peter decided to linger in the shower, that Avery made a move.  
  
He went down on his knees and practically swallowed him whole. It felt so damn good. Almost too good. Avery was much better at this than El. And if Peter closed his eyes and concentrated on the sound of his heartbeat, he could imagine that it was Neal sucking him.  
  
And now, that rat-faced little shit, Matthew Keller, said he had pictures. If he didn’t give him two hundred dollars, he’d pin copies of them to every bulletin board in school, and he’d keep doing it until Peter paid up.   
  
He broke out in an ice cold sweat at the thought of anyone finding out - anyone and Neal Caffrey. If Neal found out he was gay - he was a perv - Jesus. He didn’t know what he’d do.  
  
Peter had always supposed that he’d make it right with Neal after graduation - they’d be going their separate ways, after all. He had sent his acceptance to college, applied for every scholarship and student aid that he could and kept his fingers crossed that Neal was going someplace other than Harvard, especially since he was determined to join the FBI. Harvard grads didn’t go into the FBI.  
  
But if Neal knew what he was, there wouldn’t be any chance of any reconciliation. Neal would think he was nothing more than another Vincent Adler. A sicko pervert who preyed on little boys. Except that little boys didn’t interest him. He liked guys - men with nice muscles and maybe a beard. He liked being with someone his equal, someone who’d give as good as he could get. But Neal wouldn’t see it that way.   
  
He actually had the two hundred that Keller was asking for - it was almost all of the money he’d saved. But the problem was that Matthew probably wouldn’t be satisfied - blackmailers don’t stop. He’d seen enough episodes of Columbo to know that. Keller had said nothing about giving him the negative, and without that, he’d have to pay and pay and pay.  
  
He could kill him. And Peter’s soul recoiled at the thought. No - that definitely wasn’t an option. He could tell his folks, but they’d disown him, or worse. If Keller published, he’d probably get his scholarships revoked. And they wouldn’t let him graduate. The parade of horrors marched through his brain. El would dump him, of course. He’d be kicked off the baseball team.  
  
It just got worse and worse and worse. It wasn’t that he hated himself for being queer - he wasn’t going to start acting any differently. He was who he was, but he was terrified of people knowing that.   
  
Peter stowed his books and gear in his locker. It was a quarter to five and he had an appointment to keep. The walk across the grounds to the football field and the permanent bleachers took all of ten minutes, but it felt like an hour. The acrid smell of cigarette smoke made his nose and throat itch. Keller was already under the bleachers.  
  
“Right on time, Burke.”  
  
“All right, let’s get this over with.”  
  
“No so fast.”  
  
“Come on - I’ll give you the money when you give me the pictures and the negative.”  
  
“I never said my price included the negative. You think I’m going to let this little cash cow just wander off?” Keller tapped an envelope against one of the metal stanchions. “You’ll find a way to get me money, Burke. If you want to keep your reputation intact.”  
  
Peter closed his eyes in despair. “I’m giving you all the money I have - I’m no cash cow. My folks don’t have money either.”  
  
“But your best friend, Neal Caffrey, does.”  
  
“What are you talking about?”  
  
“He’s got pots of money, didn’t you know?”  
  
Peter ignored that last comment, as if he’d take money from Neal. “We aren’t friends anymore, haven’t you heard?”  
  
“Ah - you should just kiss and make up. I bet you ask nicely, he’ll let you have some, though you might have to suck his dick first.”  
  
That was it - Peter wasn’t going to take any more of it. He grabbed Keller by the throat; he was going to kill him. He was --  
  
“Don’t waste your energy, Peter. He’s not worth it.” Neal’s voice came out of nowhere. Peter spun around to find Neal and Moz just standing there.  
  
Moz threw in his two cents. “You know, Keller – you are way too interested in other guys’ dicks.”   
  
Keller sneered. “You don’t want to mess with me, Mozzie. I’m sure you’ve got loads of secrets you don’t want people to know about.”  
  
“And so do you,” Moz interrupted. “I wonder what everyone would think about the porno in your locker.”  
  
Keller glared at them. “What are you talking about?”  
  
“The male skin mags – the ones with the guys with the big dicks.”  
  
Peter watched in appalled fascination as Keller froze. “You’re bluffing. You can’t know about that.”  
  
Neal was amazingly nonchalant. “Not only do I know about those magazines, I’ve seen them - we’ve seen them.” Neal pointed over to Mozzie. “Which is why I have to wonder about your obsession with cock sucking.”  
  
Keller shook himself like a wet dog. “That doesn’t matter – you can’t prove anything. But your pal Burke here, he’s in a load of trouble.”  
  
Peter could see where this was going. “Neal – get the fuck out of here, it’s none of your business.”  
  
Neal shook his head. “No, Peter, it is. Despite what you may think or say or how you act, you’re still my friend.” He turned back to Keller. “You don’t get to do this.”  
  
“How are you going to stop me?” Keller waved the envelope. “Either Burke pays up, or this picture goes public. He’s not going to be such a well-liked guy anymore.”  
  
“Oh, go eat a mango,” Moz commented.  
  
“What?”   
  
It all happened a little too fast for Peter to follow, but somehow Matthew was distracted by Mozzie’s non sequitur and Neal grabbed the envelope.  
  
“That changes nothing, Caffrey. I’ve got a dozen other copies and the negative.”  
  
“You’re an idiot, Keller. How do you think we found out about your stash of gay porno? We have the copies of this. And the negative, too.”  
  
Peter wanted to die, right then and there. Neal had seen the picture. Neal knew what he was.   
  
Keller sneered, “You’re bluffing, Caffrey.”  
  
“You think so?” Neal held up a strip of film. Keller made a grab for it, but Mozzie tripped him and then sat down on top his ass.  
  
Neal walked around Keller, managing to kick some dirt into his face. “Oh – are you choking?”  
  
Keller was coughing too hard to answer.  
  
“I guess not.”  
  
Peter stood there, angry, embarrassed. “Neal – you should have stayed out of this.”  
  
Neal’s face was grave, serious and so beautiful that his heart ached. “And let you get hurt? How many times have you stuck up for me? Defended me? Protected me? Too many times to count.”   
  
“I didn’t want you to know.”  
  
They looked at each other, the silent communication that had been so much a part of their friendship made words almost unnecessary. The compassion in Neal’s eyes was nearly too much, especially after everything he had done to push him away. Neal handed him the strip of negative. “This is what I found in Keller’s locker.”  
  
Peter took it and held it up the light. There were five images, four were blurry, but the fifth clearly showed him getting a blowjob. It was a lucky shot – but one that could ruin his life. Peter swallowed, hard.   
  
“Here.” Neal handed him a Bic lighter.  
  
“You’re such a fucking boy scout, Caffrey.” Keller sneered.  
  
Moz bounced on his ass. “Shut your pie hole, jerkwad.”   
  
“Thanks.” Peter didn’t say anything else as he flicked the lighter and touched the flame to the edge of the plastic. He held it as it burned down to his fingers and then he dropped it into the dirt, where the fire consumed the last of it and it smoldered until Peter ground the embers out with his sneaker. The acrid smell of burning plastic stuck in his nose.  
  
“What do you want to do with this asshole?” Moz bounced on Keller again and he yelped.  
  
Peter was so relieved that all he could say was “Let him go.”  
  
Moz disagreed, though. “Bad move – you should never leave your enemies alive, they’ll only come back and hurt you again.”  
  
“I don’t want to kill him!”   
  
“Then let me take care of the problem. I’ve got some friends who would be very interested in Mr. Keller here.” He got up, but before Matthew could run off, Moz grabbed his earlobe, pinching it hard. He pulled and dragged Keller along. Over the yelps and screams, Moz called out, “Enjoy your weekend, boys. Remember to come up for air.”  
  
Peter looked at Neal, puzzled. “What type of friends does he have?”  
  
“Some mad Russians, probably – but I’ve learned not to ask him too many questions these days.” Neal pulled an envelope out of the back of his pants. “You may want to burn these someplace safer – they’re the other copies.”  
  
“You looked at them?” He asked, fear and self-loathing making his voice stiff.  
  
“Yeah.”   
  
Why was Neal smiling at him like that? Why wasn’t he running away, running to safety? “Why?” It was the only thing he could say.  
  
“Because. Tell you what, I’ll answer your question if you answer one for me.” The look on Neal’s face was hard to understand, his smile was – ambiguous. But there was tension there, too. And Peter could read excitement in his eyes.   
  
Peter didn’t know if he should accept this bargain. “What’s your question.”  
  
Neal swallowed and Peter thought he could see tears. “Why did you …Why did you dump me like that?” He let out a huff of bitter laughter. “One day we’re friends – the next day you say I’m cramping your style and you don’t want me around anymore. Why? What did I do?”  
  
These were the same questions Neal asked him earlier in the week, the same questions he was terrified of answering. He licked his lips and was as honest as he could be. “Because I’m a fucking queer.” He paused and the admission burned like acid in his gut. “Because I’m like your perverted stepfather.” He waited for Neal to do something, to say anything. To bolt. To punch him in the face.  
  
Neal did none of that. He just took a step closer, and another step, until there was no more room. Peter’s back was against a pole and the only way to move was to go through Neal. He could feel Neal’s breath, the heat from his body. “Don’t, please just … don’t.” He couldn’t help himself, the tears started and Peter knew they weren’t going to stop.  
  
“Why do you think you’re like Adler? Do you get turned on by little boys?”  
  
“Hell no.” Peter nearly shouted.   
  
“Then why?”  
  
“Don’t you get it? Can’t you see? Do you have to make me say it?” The words came on harsh, soul-breaking sobs. “I want you – okay? I’ve wanted you since we were in ninth grade and I barely understood why.”  
  
Neal reached out and touched his face, smoothing away the tears. “You’re crazy, you know that?” He shook his head. “You ended our friendship to protect me from your own crazy, stupid self.”  
  
He nodded in agreement. “I didn’t want to hurt you. I didn’t want you to be frightened of me, like you were of that perv Adler. I remember that night – like it was yesterday. I remember how terrified you were.” He swallowed around the lump in his throat. “I think I’d kill myself before I let that happen to you again.”  
  
Neal took a step back, and Peter was relieved by the sudden distance. Until Neal punched him in the stomach. He dropped to his knees, more from the surprise than any pain. “What the _fuck_ did you do that for?”  
  
Neal stood over him. “Because you’re a shit, Peter Burke. A first class, world champion shit. Don’t you think that I can take care of myself?” Neal shouted, “Don’t you get it? I’m not some helpless kid anymore! I’d beat your ass if you tried to hurt me.”  
  
Peter recoiled from the rage in Neal’s voice. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I thought it would be better if you hated me.” He waited for Neal to run away.  
  
Neal didn’t leave, though. He went down on his knees next to him, way too close. “Do you hate being gay?” Strange, there was no rage in that question.  
  
Peter didn’t have to think about that question. “No – not really. I mean, I don’t want people to know because I don’t want them to hate me. But it’s who I am.” He shifted his body and sat down. Neal stayed on his knees.  
  
“Good.”  
  
“Good? What do you mean, ‘good’?” That seemed like a pretty stupid thing to say.  
  
“I mean ‘good’ because …” Neal scooted a bit closer, and put a hand on his knee. “I’m gay too. And it would be pretty fucking awful if you hated what you were, because I’ve been in love with you since – like – forever.”  
  
Peter wasn’t quite sure he heard what he thought he heard. “You’re not gay.”  
  
Neal laughed, leaned in, and kissed him. It was just the barest brushing of lips. A second or two of contact. And his world changed forever.  
  
There was a breathlessness to Neal’s voice, like he just ran a marathon. He sounded a little scared and more than a little excited. “I’m gay, Peter. A fag. Queer as a three-dollar bill. I’m a homosexual. Just like you.” Neal licked his lips, and looked up at him from under his eyelashes. “I thought you hated me because you knew I was gay. And that I was …” Neal paused. “That I was really attracted to you. When you called me a girl the other day – ”  
  
“I’m sorry about that – I just wanted you to go away before I did something awful.”  
  
“Like what?”  
  
“Kiss you, touch you. And then you’d really hate me.” Peter grimaced. “I had this plan, you see. I thought maybe after graduation, just before we started college, I’d come over and apologize. We’d be friends again for a few weeks - I could keep my hands to myself for that long. And then we’d be far enough apart –”  
  
All of a sudden, Neal started laughing and he couldn’t seem to stop. Between the gasping whoops of hysteria, he asked Peter, “Where are you going?”  
  
“Harvard – and what the fuck is so funny?”  
  
“And where am I going?”  
  
“How the hell should I know? We haven’t talked in six …” It was like someone turned on the lights. “You’re going to Harvard, too. Shit - I never would have held out.” Peter started laughing too.  
  
“It was meant to be, you moron. _We_ were meant to be.” Neal caught his breath, and Peter couldn’t catch his. In the shadowed half-light under the bleachers, Neal’s eyes were like stars. Peter was consumed by them, and when Neal leaned in to kiss him, all he could see was blue.   
  
This kiss was more than a simple meeting of lips. Neal was pouring himself into Peter, and Peter thought that he would never be _more_ than at this moment. They ate at each other, in turn hard and almost violent, their breaths harsh. Peter reveled in the feel of Neal’s stubble against his cheek, his upper lip. Peter had done a lot with other boys, but not this, not kissing. Somehow, it felt wrong that he should. But now, kissing Neal was the most perfect thing he ever did, and that it was every kind of right in the universe.  
  
He ran his fingers through Neal’s curls, they were softer than he dreamed of, and Neal’s touch on his own head, his nails running across his scalp was just about the most arousing thing he’d ever experienced. Peter groaned, he wanted … he wanted.  
  
Neal pulled back, and Peter actually whimpered.   
  
Neal whispered, “Not here.”  
  
He came to his senses. “Yeah - anyone could find us.”   
  
Neal gave a huff of laughter. “I wasn’t thinking about that - I was thinking that there are lot rocks and dirt and bugs.”  
  
It was Peter’s turn to laugh. “Trust you to think of the creature comforts first.”  
  
Peter got to his feet and held out a hand to Neal. They brushed themselves off - no need to advertise that they’d been rolling on the ground. He glanced at his watch, it was nearly six. Funny how the world changed in an hour.  
  
Hands in their pockets, they walked across the field, to the student parking lot. Peter had to admit, “I’m terrified, you know.”  
  
“Yeah, I am too.”  
  
“What are we going to do?” He was thinking about keeping this a secret when he wanted to shout it from the roof.  
  
But Neal had other things on his mind. “I’ve never done anything with a guy, not like you.”  
  
Peter blushed. “Yeah, well. Sorry.”  
  
“Don’t be - it’s good that one of us knows what he’s doing. I’ve been with girls, but it’s not the same.”  
  
Apropos of everything, Peter commented, “I like dicks. I like them a lot.” He felt almost giddy saying that out loud.   
  
“Yeah - that’s obvious.” Neal’s comment was wry, but Peter thought he heard a touch of jealousy. He smiled. Life had just become … amazing. Neal wanted _him_.  
  
They got into Peter’s car and Neal looked down at his hands, like he was worried about something. “What are you going to tell Elizabeth?” He then looked at Peter and asked in a quiet voice, “Or are you going to continue to date her?”  
  
Peter had often thought about telling El the truth. She had, in a small way, filled a bit of the hole in his life after he had ended things with Neal. She was a good friend, and she seemed to understand that there was always going to be a distance between them. “I think she deserves to know. I don’t want to lie to her - not anymore.”  
  
Neal didn’t say anything for a moment. “Do you think she’ll tell anyone?”  
  
“No - not Elizabeth. I think she’ll be mad at me, but I don’t think she would gossip about it.”  
  
“No, she won’t.”  
  
Peter stopped at a red light and looked at Neal. “You seem awfully sure of that. Did you tell her about yourself?”  
  
“No - Moz was the only person I told. But I just have this feeling. Dunno why, but I do.”  
  
“I hope you’re right.”  
  
They drove in silence, until Peter couldn’t bear it anymore. “My folks are going away for the weekend. Want to come over?” He sounded like he was in third grade, trying to play with one of the cool kids.  
  
“And do what?” Neal’s question was equally off-hand.  
  
“Hmmm, talk. Play chess. Screw?” Peter bit his lip hard, trying not to laugh at his own witticism.  
  
Neal didn’t rise to the bait. “Sounds good to me.”  
  
_________________________  
  
To say he was a little nervous was like saying that John Lennon was just a little dead. Neal wanted to reach over and touch Peter, to reassure himself that this was real. He could still taste Peter, the salt and the sweat of his skin. He could still feel him, too. Beard burn and strength. He thought that for the rest of his life, he’d forever associate sharp light and deep shadows with Peter Burke.  
  
Which really wouldn’t be such a bad thing, would it?  
  
They pulled up to the curb in front of his house; his dad’s car was in the driveway, trunk opened and ready for a trip. Neal followed Peter along the familiar path to the back yard and the kitchen door. He saw Peter’s mom - _Aunt Cathy_ \- inside, and smiled. Yeah, he had missed Peter during their – hiatus, break up, cold war – whatever, but he had missed Uncle Joe and Aunt Cathy, too. He missed their low key approach to life and problems. He missed being able to come and go and always be welcome. He loved Aunt Ellen, but she had a busy and important job, and she wasn’t a mom. His thoughts shied away from his actual mom – that was still a problem he was going to have to deal with. Eventually, but not now.  
  
Neal couldn’t help but wonder what the Burkes’ reaction was going to be when he walked in and she saw him. He didn’t have long to wait. Peter opened the door and walked into the kitchen, and he was no more than two steps behind. Aunt Cathy looked pissed.  
  
“Peter Burke! You knew that your father and I wanted to be on the road by 6 at the latest, and here it is, 6:15. I hope you have a good …” Her voice trailed off as Neal stepped out from behind Peter.  
  
“Hi.” He gave her a small, hopeful smile. “Don’t be too mad at him, it was my fault.”  
  
Peter looked about to contradict him, but whatever he was going to say was drowned by his mother’s squeal of joy.   
  
“Neal Caffrey!” She ran around the table to wrap him in a hug. “What are you … you and Peter have settled your differences?”  
  
“Yeah.” He ducked his head, a little overwhelmed by her greeting.  
  
“Let me look at you.” She held him at arms length. “You look like you’ve been through the wars.”   
  
“Yeah, well – I had a stomach bug earlier this week.” That was the truth as far as anyone really needed to know.  
  
“I did run into your Aunt Ellen on Wednesday, she said you were under the weather.” She gave him a penetrating look. “I’m just so glad you boys have kissed and made up.”  
  
“Mom!” Peter’s cry of outrage was perfectly timed, because Neal felt himself turning bright, bright red.  
  
She rushed over and gave Peter a hug. “You two boys! I promised your father I wouldn’t pry, he said you’re almost a grown man, but you’re still my son.” She let Peter go and looked at both of them. “I didn’t ask what happened in October and I’m not going to ask what happened now – but I’m so happy you’re friends again.”  
  
Neal shot a look at Peter. “I am, too.” He didn’t say that he never stopped being Peter’s friend – that was water under the bridge, really.   
  
“Hon, have you heard from your son? If we don’t get going now, it’ll be close to midnight by the time we get to your sister’s.” Peter’s dad came into the kitchen; he sounded exasperated. “It’s not like Peter to be so irresponsible.” The grumbling stopped when he saw Neal.  
  
“Hey there, Uncle Joe.”   
  
Neal was grateful that Peter’s dad didn’t indulge in the same near-hysterical greeting as Peter’s mom. He gave both of them a smile and simply said. “Well, well – about time you boys buried the hatchet.”  
  
“Mom, Dad, would it be okay if Neal stayed here over the weekend?” Peter asked, and Neal just continued to play it cool.  
  
Aunt Cathy, who was still grinning, said, “Don’t see why not – I bet you boys have a lot of catching up to do.”  
  
“Yeah – ” Neal was about to say something about helping Peter study for his French Regents, but decided that the less he said, the better. “And I remember the drill; I’ll call my aunt and let her know where I’ll be.”  
  
Peter’s mom rested a warm palm across his cheek. “You doing okay at home?”   
  
His smile was more a twist of his lips. “I’ll be fine.” _Now._  
  
Uncle Joe pulled out his wallet and dropped twenty bucks on the counter. “That’s for the two of you – don’t spend the whole weekend studying. Go to the movies, have some fun.”  
  
Peter thanked his folks, and so did Neal. He hoped he was as stone-faced as Peter; it was just too funny that his folks were giving them money to go out on a date.   
  
“We’ll be back on Sunday – probably after the dinner hour, so don’t wait for us. We’ll call you from the road and let you know when we’ll be home.” Peter’s mom kissed them both on their cheeks and his dad hustled her out the door. They both watched them pull out of the driveway and head off.  
  
Peter closed the door, and the hallway fell into shadow. Neal swallowed, unaccountably nervous. The excitement and bravado from the afternoon, the adrenaline from the successful rescue, the joy of their reconciliation and that wonderful kiss were still bubbling in his veins, but all of a sudden, everything seemed a bit too much. He waited for Peter to make the first move.  
  
All Peter did was tug him back into the kitchen. “Come on.” He stuck his head into the fridge and called out a choice of beverages. “Coke? 7-Up? Iced tea? Orange juice?”  
  
“Coke’s fine,” Neal replied. He called Aunt Ellen at the precinct to let her know he’d be at Peter’s for the weekend. She didn’t pry, but she did have other questions.  
  
 _“You’re feeling okay?”_  
  
“Fine, never better.” That was certainly true.  
  
 _“You could have called the house and talked to your mother.”_  
  
Neal didn’t say anything.  
  
 _“Yeah, right. I should know better than to say that. Just take it easy, kiddo.”_  
  
“I will.” He looked up at Peter, who was standing there, hands in his pockets and a questioning expression on his face. “Look, gotta go – I’ll see you Monday.”  
  
 _“Love you, babe.”_  
  
“I know.” The exchange from “The Empire Strikes Back” was an old joke between them. Neal ended the call, “Catch the bad guys.”  
  
“Everything okay?” Peter asked as he poured him a glass of soda.  
  
“Yeah – Aunt Ellen’s pushing me to talk to my mother.” Neal took a sip. “That’s not going to happen.” He shook his head. “Nope, not now, not ever.”  
  
Peter didn’t say anything, thankfully. They sat across from each other, the moment both awkward and comfortable.  
  
“What now?” They both asked the question at the same time and laughed, breaking the tension.  
  
Peter spoke first. “I like kissing you. I _really_ like kissing you.”  
  
Neal couldn’t think of a better way to spend the evening than necking with Peter, but then he remembered there was something they had to do. “Wait – the pictures. We should burn them.”  
  
Peter got up, pulled the now crumpled envelope out of his pocket and headed outside. “I think the grill is probably the best place for this.” Peter tore the photos into strips and set them in the base of the kettle grill. Using the Bic that Neal gave him earlier he set the mass of paper on fire.  
  
Neal watched the pictures burn, and an odd thought occurred. “You know what? I got to save you this time.”  
  
Peter looked up, startled. “What do you mean, this time?”  
  
“You’ve always been the one to rescue me.” Neal admitted a little shyly.   
  
“Huh?”  
  
“Since that time you beat up that kid after he spiked Mozzie during dodge ball. You remember that, don’t you?”  
  
Peter laughed. “Yeah – I do. It was Philip Kramer – Phil the Pill. Jeez, I had forgotten about that. I got suspended, you know. Two days for starting a fight.” Peter stirred the embers, making certain that no scraps were left unburned. “It was worth it.”  
  
“You saved my life a few more times after that.”  
  
Peter nodded. “And you just saved mine.” He looked at Neal, serious and stern. Neal shivered; there was something about that look. “After what I did, I didn’t deserve it.”  
  
“I guess you were trying to do what was right. What you thought was right.”  
  
Peter stirred the ashes once more before putting the lid back on, apparently satisfied that everything was completely burned. “Anyway – I don’t think I said this - thank you.”  
  
Their eyes met and it was one of those moments that Neal knew would be part of his life forever. “You’re welcome.”  
  
He followed Peter back inside, through the kitchen. Satchmo, elderly and slow, lifted his head and gave a single _woof_ of greeting, before returning to his doggie dreams. Peter didn’t stop, nor did Neal, until they were in Peter’s bedroom, the door shut behind them.  
  
Peter put a hand on his shoulder and hauled him close. “Come here.”   
  
Neal was again aware of how much bigger Peter was. This time, the feeling was a delicious thrill and his dick twinged. He almost wanted to say to Peter, “Make me,” but he didn’t. It was a novel sensation to look up at someone in this situation. Neal wasn’t short and he wasn’t a weakling, but Peter was tall, and years of athletics – particularly pitching and conditioning, made him broad and strong. Peter cupped his head and leaned in.  
  
Whether Peter pulled him, or Neal pushed, it didn’t really matter – bodies met the mattress and it gave a little bounce. They clung to each other, kissing frantically. Neal had always prided himself on his expertise, focusing on his partner’s desire as a way to forget that the smooth cheeks, pouting lips and long hair weren’t what _he_ wanted.   
  
Peter wasn’t a great kisser; he was a little rough, a little frantic. He didn’t finesse, he conquered. Neal didn’t mind. In fact, he loved it. He loved Peter’s body on top of him, pushing him into the mattress, grinding against him, hard and desperate. That was okay, because Neal was hard and desperate too.  
  
He tried to work his hands between them, he wanted to touch Peter. But it wasn’t possible, Peter was pulling his thighs apart, settling himself in the slim cradle of his hips, Peter’s erection – hot and large – riding against him. The pressure from their zippers hurt, but in a good way. It was like riding a bike down the steepest hill with your hands in the air, your face in the wind and nothing to stop you. And you never wanted that ride to end.  
  
But it was going to end really soon. Neal felt like he was about to explode, turning inside out maybe. It had never been this good – not even in his own bed with his own hand and visions of Peter, naked and wet, in his head. It had definitely never been this good with a girl.  
  
Peter was rubbing up against him, his mouth buried against his neck, panting his name like it was a prayer. He was panting too, “Peter” and “fuck me” and maybe even, “love you” (which he’d been saying in his head for the better part of three years anyway). When Peter came in a scalding, uncontrollable rush, it triggered his own orgasm, and he blew like Mount St. Helens.  
  
They rubbed and humped against each other, a bit less frantic now. The descent from ecstasy was slow and delicious. Neal turned his head and tried to look at Peter. His whole universe consisted of brown eyes and he never, ever wanted to move again. They then separated just far enough that Neal could finally see all of Peter’s face, and he thought, _This is what happiness really looks like._ Peter was smiling from his soul. And laughing a bit, too.   
  
“Can’t believe we just did that – we didn’t even take our shirts off.”  
  
Neal had to laugh too. “It was incredible, though.” Peter hugged him and Neal tucked himself into his body. They lay there, curled together, legs still tangled, for a few moments. Sticky and damp jeans made for an uncomfortable repose, though.  
  
“Shower?” Peter asked.  
  
“Shower,” was his reply.  
  
Neal had been hoping for the opportunity to recreate the scene in the picture that had caused so much grief, but Peter didn’t give him the opportunity. As the water poured over them, Peter poured himself over Neal and Neal reveled in it. The touch of wet skin against wet skin, hotter than the water, was like nothing he ever experienced. Peter held him against the tile wall with a knee as he drizzled baby oil into his palm, grasping his cock and stroking. Peter’s hand was hard and his fingers callused, but his palm was slick and smooth in the right places.   
  
Peter _handled_ him, and Neal, mindless with desire, let him. Peter turned him around, and Neal leaned back into his arms. Peter cock was hard and hot and slick between his ass cheeks and he shivered – a little fear, a little anticipation.   
  
“Shhh, shhh – not now. We’ll wait for that, okay?”  
  
Neal nodded, relieved, and shimmied back against him. Peter’s hand tightened around his cock, slowly stroking, keeping him on the edge of forever. He didn’t come – he couldn’t come - until Peter scraped the edge of his thumb across the top of his cock, the rough cuticle catching just a little. As he shouted, Peter pinched his nipple hard. He could barely remember how to say his own name by the time the hot water ran out.   
  
They may have spent the entire weekend gorging themselves on each other, but reality intruded in the form of a telephone call from Peter’s girlfriend late Friday night. As he listened to half of the conversation, Neal tried not to be jealous and to remember that El was his friend, too. Peter managed to sound normal as he talked to Elizabeth. To busy himself while Peter and El talked, Neal picked up their clothes and threw them in the washing machine. He put on a pair of Peter’s sweat pants and a t-shirt, but he’d need something more than that to wear and he didn’t want to go home and face his mother. Not just yet.  
  
“El’s coming over on Sunday morning.” Peter said as he leaned against the door to the laundry room.  
  
“We’re going to tell her?”  
  
“No - _I’m_ going to tell her. You’re going to sit quietly and make this as painless as possible.”  
  
Neal arched an eyebrow at him.  
  
“And stop giving me the Spock look. You’re the one who said that she wouldn’t get hysterical about this.”  
  
“I know, but …”  
  
“But what?” Peter interrupted.  
  
Neal couldn’t keep in the gusty sigh. “I’m jealous, okay?”  
  
Peter wrapped an arm around him, dragging him close and kissing the stuffing out of him. And the jealousy. He still wasn’t a great kisser, but he made Neal’s knees weak and filled his stomach with butterflies. “You have nothing to be jealous about. I just don’t want her to be hurt any more than she has to be. I’m breaking up with her for you, get it? And it’s not like _you_ haven’t been dating. You do know your nickname, don’t you?”  
  
“Yeah.” Neal felt himself blushing. Since October, he pretty much had dated every girl in the high school. And by dating, that usually meant fucking. Not all of the girls, but a lot of them. Or enough of them to earn Neal the title of “Casanova Caffrey.” Mozzie had thought it hysterical, since he had always seen Neal as a bookish nerd like himself. Neal didn’t tell him that if it wasn’t for the rule that you actually had to know how to play chess to be a member of Chess Club, it would have been inundated with girls.  
  
Peter pressed him against the washing machine, and between the vibrations against his ass, and the heat and mass and proximity of Peter’s cock, his own dick stopped caring about El Mitchell and anything else.  
  
  
_________________________  
  
“Is it possible to die from too much sex?” Neal asked Peter, late Saturday night.  
  
Peter rolled over and his hand landed in the vicinity of Neal’s sticky, spent groin. He toyed with the curls there, before moving a little south. Neal’s cock twitched and he laughed. “You? Too much sex? Not possible.”  
  
Peter moaned just a little as Neal turned into him and buried his nose in the nape of his neck. He moaned a little more as Neal licked him and bit his ear lobe. “Could say the same thing about you, too.”  
  
Truth was, Peter was exhausted. They hadn’t left the house except to walk Satchmo. Hell, they barely left the bedroom – since Friday evening. They slept a bit, ate, made out without their clothes – doing everything but the serious fucking, and repeated the process many times. Neal’s voice was hoarse. Not so much from screaming, but from trying to deep throat him. That wasn’t the best moment of the weekend. He had gotten a little too eager, Neal gagged and there was contact by Neal’s pearly whites with his tender flesh, and his erection died a sad and sudden death - for about ten whole minutes.  
  
They talked too, about who to tell (El, of course, and Moz already knew), who not to tell (Peter’s parents ( _not yet_ , Neal’s aunt and mother, _of course_ ), and whether they’d room together at Harvard (most definitely).  
  
Peter pulled the sheet over them – it was a mess and he’d have to do laundry in the morning. Again. They had despoiled this bed, the bed that Neal normally slept in, the couch in the den, and the kitchen floor. He made a mental note to wipe down the tables and chairs and all the countertops before El came over.  
  
And definitely before his folks came home.  
  
“You’re thinking too loudly,” Neal muttered.  
  
“Sorry.”  
  
“S’okay.”   
  
Neal rolled back over and Peter draped an arm over his waist. Sleeping with Neal - _sleeping – not fucking-sleeping_ \- was wonderful, even in this narrow bed. Peter dozed off to the thought that when they got to Cambridge in the fall, they could sleep together every night.   
  
It seemed like he had just fallen asleep when the alarm clock started to buzz. Peter opened his eyes and found the other side of the bed empty. But before he could panic, Neal walked out of the bathroom wearing just a towel wrapped around his waist.  
  
“I called Mozzie – I asked him to come over, too.” Neal said by way of ‘good morning.’  
  
Maybe his brain was still sleep-fuzzed. “Why?”  
  
“El and Moz are good friends – ”  
  
“Good friends? How good?”  
  
“Why does that matter?”  
  
Peter scratched the back of his ear. “Don’t know. Anyway – why should Mozzie be here?”  
  
“I thought that maybe she’d want someone on her side. She’s the only girl that Moz really trusts.”  
  
Peter let himself be persuaded.   
  
“Get your stinky ass in the shower, Burke. They’ll be here in an hour.”  
  
He got up, stretched, and caught Neal’s appreciative eye. And the newly forming hump under his towel. Neal smirked and Peter made to grab him, but all he ended up with was the towel as Neal skipped away.  
  
He got out of the shower to find the bed stripped and the smell of a pot of fresh coffee brewing. Neal was going to make a spectacular roommate. He dressed with some care, good enough that when he joined Neal in the kitchen, he was treated to a wolf-whistle.   
  
“You look like something from the Preppy Handbook.”  
  
Peter looked down at himself, and had to agree. The shirt was an Izod, a gift from his aunt, and the pants were the chinos he defaulted to on date night. “I thought I should make the effort.” He took a cup of coffee from Neal, added cream and sugar, drained it, and let Neal refill it for him.   
  
He fed Satch a little kibble, and Neal gave him fresh water. They took apart the Sunday Times, Peter making a beeline for the crossword puzzle. Neal went for the Book Review and neither of them felt the need to talk.  
  
Peter was so engrossed that when the doorbell rang, he almost jumped out of his skin. Neal stood up; the nervous expression on his face probably mirrored his own.  
  
“I’ll get it.”   
  
It wasn’t Elizabeth – it was Mozzie, carrying a bag of baked goods. “So, you two rub each other raw?”  
  
“Nice, Havisham. Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?” Peter instantly regretted his flippant reply. Moz didn’t really have a family. He mumbled, “Sorry.”  
  
“That’s okay – it’s old news. Where’s the boyfriend?”  
  
“In the kitchen – and you’re really embracing our relationship.”  
  
Mozzie muttered something about opportunities and bagels and cream cheese before heading into the kitchen.  
  
Peter was about to close the door when he saw Elizabeth pull up in her bright red Camaro – an early graduation present from her parents. He waited at the door for her, with what he hoped was a welcoming smile. She leaned up to kiss him, and he turned so she’d land on his cheek.   
  
She didn’t even give him a hurt look. But she did comment, “Is that Mozzie’s car?”  
  
“Yeah, he just got here.”  
  
El gave him a puzzled look. “I thought we were going to hang out today – just the two of us.”  
  
Peter frowned. This was going to be so fucking difficult.  
  
“What’s the matter?”  
  
“We have to talk, El.” He held out a hand and took her into the kitchen.  
  
Moz and Neal were sitting at the table, munching on bagels. Both of them looked up, and Moz had a worried expression on his face, which darkened to concern when he saw El. Neal’s face was carefully blank. Before Peter could say anything, El squealed, much like his mother had, when she saw Neal.  
  
“You’ve made up? You’re friends again?”  
  
Peter watched as Neal gave her a shy smile and ducked his head. “Yeah.”  
  
El looked at him and then back to Neal. “Well, it’s about time. Life would have been pretty awkward when you both turned up at Harvard and refused to talk to each other.” She wandered over to the table and took one of the bagels. “But what’s Moz doing here?”  
  
Moz flashed a panicked look at Peter but recovered quickly. “I’m here to supply the baked goods and make sure that Neal’s in fine form for the tournament next week.” He picked up the Sunday Times Magazine (Peter supposed for the chess column), his unbuttered-uncream cheesed bagel and a traveling chess set. “Come on, Boy Wonder, we’ve got some work to do.”   
  
Moz hauled Neal onto the patio, leaving the two of them alone. The moment was awkward, to say the least.  
  
El put down her bagel and sighed. “So – what do we have to talk about?”   
  
Peter sat down and pulled El onto the chair next to him. “I don’t know how to say this …”  
  
“You’re breaking up with me.” She said in a flat, sad voice.  
  
He swallowed hard, and nodded. “I’m sorry – I just …” Peter couldn’t meet Elizabeth’s eyes.  
  
El asked quietly, “Who is she?”   
  
Peter took a deep breath. This was where it was going to get rough. “There’s no other girl, El.”  
  
She blinked. “Then why?”  
  
“It’s complicated.”  
  
“What the hell could be so complicated? You’re seventeen!”  
  
Peter looked up, past her shoulder, at Neal. He and Moz were sitting across from each other over the chess board. Moz was gesticulating wildly; Neal’s expression was unreadable. El followed his gaze and looked back at him.  
  
“I think I understand.” She licked her lips. “I think.”  
  
“Don’t hate me, please.” Peter would have gone down on his knees if he had to.  
  
“Does he know how you feel?”  
  
Stunned that she understood, she just got it with a simple glance outside, all Peter could say was “Yeah.”   
  
“And he’s okay with it?”   
  
Peter nodded. “We’re both okay with it.” And suddenly, he realized he had to say the words out loud. “We are both gay. We love each other.” There. It was out there. He hoped Neal was right, that El wouldn’t freak out.  
  
She didn’t, at least on the surface. Peter couldn’t tell what was going on inside.  
  
“Is that why you fought – last October? Neal told you he was gay?”  
  
That was a plausible scenario, Peter thought. But as far from the truth as it could possibly be. And he owed Elizabeth the truth. “No – we didn’t really fight. I told him off because … because I didn’t want him to know how I felt about him. I – ” The thing with Neal’s stepfather wasn’t common knowledge and it wasn’t Peter’s story to share, so he couldn’t tell El about the guilt he had felt in his desire.  
  
“So, what changed?”  
  
This was something he could answer and he told her about Matthew Keller’s attempts to blackmail him. She was understandably furious that he had let Avery Philips give him a blow job when they were dating, but she was even more furious that he hadn’t told her about Keller’s threats.   
  
“That little toad – when I see him …” She made a fist. “I’m going to – ”  
  
“El, you’ll do nothing. He doesn’t have any evidence, but if you made a big deal out of it, he may just tell everyone anyway.” Peter actually didn’t know whether to expect Matthew to be in school on Monday. He’d have to ask Moz what his Russian friends were going to do to him.  
  
She nodded in agreement, and Peter could tell how unhappy she was. “I’m sorry, I really am. I didn’t mean to lead you on.” He thought if he kept apologizing, maybe Elizabeth would be all right.  
  
Oddly enough, that got a chuckle of her. “Come on, Peter. It’s not like we were going to get married. And I honestly didn’t think we’d make it past this summer anyway. You’re going to be in college in Massachusetts, I’m heading off to Stanford, more than three thousand miles away.”  
  
Trust her to be so practical. “You aren’t grossed out, though?”  
  
“No. Did you want me to be?” That was a serious question.  
  
“Hell no! But most people would. Will be.”  
  
“Peter Burke – I thought you knew by now – I’m NOT most people.” She smiled at him, and there was no reservation in it. Elizabeth Mitchell was as true and honest as always. She got up and opened the patio door. “Neal – can you come here?”  
  
Peter didn’t know what El wanted, and from the look on Neal’s face, he wasn’t expecting sweetness and light. Moz looked a little bereft, though. “You, too, Moz.” They trooped in.  
  
El poured herself a cup of coffee and sat down, leaning back in the chair like she owned it.  
  
Neal spoke first. “El – I’m –”  
  
“Don’t say it, Neal.”  
  
“Are we still friends?” Neal asked in an incredibly pathetic voice. He looked so dejected that Peter wanted to go put his arms around him. He didn’t.  
  
El did instead, getting up and giving Neal a hug. “Of course, silly. If I’d known what was going on in both your stupid brains, you wouldn’t have spent the last six months pretending you hated each other.”   
  
“I never hated Peter.” Neal defended himself and Peter felt a little like a shit.  
  
“It’s my fault, okay. Can we move on?” He moved a little closer to Neal, just to make sure Neal understood that they were _together_.  
  
“I have two questions, guys.” El stated.   
  
Peter nodded, surprised it was only two.  
  
“Okay – first question. What about prom? We’ve been dating for over a year, and I really don’t want to miss it because no one is going to ask me.”  
  
Peter’s heart sank. He hadn’t thought that far ahead. He owed El, owed her big time. Not just for being his unwitting beard, but for accepting him and Neal with such grace. Yet, the thought of taking her and not Neal – not that taking Neal as his date would even be possible – was wrong and hurtful.  
  
“I won’t mind if you take El, really. You two have been a couple since, like, forever.” Peter thought that Neal needed to work on his lying skills. Not even a four year old would be convinced by the words coming out of his mouth.  
  
“Umm, Elizabeth?” Moz spoke for the first time since he and Neal came inside. They all turned to him. He pushed Neal to one side, Peter to the other, and stood in front of Elizabeth. “I know that I’m no Peter Burke or Neal Caffrey.” He rubbed the top of his head, calling attention to his already thinning hair. “And you’re probably not inclined to consider me more than a quirky friend, but I would be _honored_ to escort you to the prom.” Moz finished his speech and bit his lip, blushing bright, bright red.  
  
Peter had long suspected that the little guy had a serious crush on his girlfriend. This was all the proof he needed.  
  
Elizabeth asked with some uncertainty. “I thought you didn’t subscribe to middle class expectations of conformity.”  
  
“For you, fair lady, I’ll rent a tux and a limo and make sure every moment is one to remember.”  
  
She blinked, then blushed and bit her lip, too. “I’d be honored to go to the prom with you, as your date. Your _real_ date.”   
  
Peter had never seen Moz smile quite like that.   
  
Neal finally spoke, breaking the silence. “El, you said you had two questions. What’s the other one?”  
  
Peter had no idea why, but El’s charming blush turned into a bright red flush, from her throat to her brow. “Elizabeth?”  
  
She looked from him to Neal and back to him again.  
  
“Come on, what’s the question?”  
  
She took a deep breath. “CouldIseeyouandNealkissPlease?”  
  
Peter didn’t understand a word of what she just said. “A little slower?”  
  
Another deep breath and then every word carefully enunciated. “I said, could I see you and Neal kiss? Please? Each other. For real.”  
  
It was Peter’s turn to get beet red, and just as he was about to say no, Neal – the little shit – stepped into it.  
  
“Sure, why not?”   
  
Peter stood there, mouth agape. He didn’t know what to say. Neal seemed – what? Hopeful? Eager? And then he thought about how much he liked kissing Neal. Why not do this? It wasn’t like El was going to take pictures of them or anything. So he said yes and didn’t look anywhere but at Neal.  
  
Neal stepped in close, so close he could smell the coffee on his breath, the tang of the shaving cream still clinging to his skin. When Neal reached up to touch his temple, Peter pressed a kiss into his palm. There was a gasp from someone, but he didn’t care who.  
  
Neal tilted his head up and drew him down against his lips; Peter opened his mouth and tried to swallow Neal whole, he tasted so fucking good.  
  
“Slow down, tiger. The lady wants a show.” Neal murmured against his lips.   
  
Peter tried to relax. It took all his willpower to dial back, to let his mouth go soft, to let Neal take the lead. Neal’s tongue dipped in, retreated, and _fucking_ flirted with his. He didn’t think it was possible for lips to play coy, but Neal’s teased him, brushing against his like butterfly wings and then firm and decisive as a hand around his cock. They beckoned and he followed, helpless. All he heard were heartbeats and the slick-slide-click of skin and tongues and teeth. Hands had climbed up under his shirt, Neal’s hands, hard and soft and amazing.  
  
Neal released him with a soft bite on his lower lip. Peter opened his eyes and discovered it was just the two of them, alone and aroused. Neal’s eyes were enormous, pupils huge and dark against icy blue.   
  
Peter never wanted this moment to end. He understood that it would, that nothing could last forever, but this – this instant could be the most perfect one of his life. Whatever happened to him, to _them_ , he swore he’d never forget it. And he had to say something – words he hadn’t yet said to Neal – because he meant them, believed them, and he couldn’t not say them and continue breathing.  
  
“Neal Caffrey, I love you.”


	7. Epilogue - At The Playground

**The Reunion – The Playground**  
  
The still winter-cold ground and the surprising warmth of the early spring morning met in a dense, swirling fog. It was late enough that all the school buses had picked up and delivered their precious cargo, but still too early for the day-to-day residential traffic. Still, Neal drove slowly along the wide, tree-lined streets, nostalgia and a concern for safety keeping him well below the speed limit.  
  
There was his old elementary school, and he pulled over for a minute. The classrooms were lit and he could see small bodies at their desks. Much the same and yet not the same. Even from this distance he could see the computers and the smartboards and all the trappings of modern technology. A security guard – another new thing – approached. It probably wasn’t a good idea to be hanging around a school in a rental car.  
  
“Everything okay, mister?”  
  
He smiled. “Fine – I went to school here, many years ago. Just waxing nostalgic.” No need to lie.  
  
The guard was polite but firm when he asked him to leave.  
  
Neal pulled out and followed the road as it wound through the neighborhood. His old house, the one on Merry Lane was unrecognizable. Aunt Ellen had sold it when she retired for good, this time to Florida. Neal wondered who was living there now – if they were the ones who added a story and redid the landscaping, turning it into just another MacMansion on a street filled with oversized, overly ostentatious homes.  
  
A right turn, a left at the third stop sign, then another left, and he was at his _other_ home, the Burkes’ place. And like the Merry Lane house, new owners had added on, refaced, remodeled to the point of ridiculousness. Peter’s parents were long gone, too.  
  
Neal sighed. _Well, it’s not like you really wanted to go back, is it?_  
  
He drove aimlessly, melancholy chasing him from street to street and memory to memory, until he found himself at a familiar place. A ballpark and a playground. The fog lingered here, gathering in the hollows and open spaces, wrapping around jungle gyms and slides and swing sets. The park was quiet, eerily so, the fog muffling everything but the screams of drifting seagulls and the creak of chains. Neal brushed a finger against the damp metal. Another memory teased at his brain, swings and a boy…  
  
“I though I’d find you here.” A voice – familiar, beloved, interrupted his recollection. He turned around. A man in a rumpled beige trench coat strode through the mist. Neal smiled.  
  
“How did you?”  
  
“Lucky guess.”  
  
“Didn’t think you were going to make it.” Neal commented.  
  
“Wouldn’t miss this for the world, you should have known that.”  
  
“What did you do, tell the AUSA it was your thirtieth high school reunion? She get the trial postponed for you?”  
  
“Nah, the Dutchman’s so-called lawyer rolled. He said that Hagen had given him orders to kill the book dealer, even gave him the means to do it. Provided dates and times and locations for the rest of the bond forgery plan. Apparently Hagen decided to cut a deal, too. He’s rolling on some bigger fish – the ones who commissioned the counterfeit Canadian hundreds. Trial’s over.”  
  
“Nice.” Neal gave the swing a little push. “Pity though.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“Would have liked to have had my testimony on record.”  
  
“They’ll be other cases, there are always other cases.”  
  
“Yeah, I know – but unlike White Collar, Art Crime rarely goes to trial. And the Bureau frowns upon active-duty agents testifying as experts in civilian matters.” He sighed, disappointed.  
  
“You’re forty-six and head of the Art Crimes Division. I don’t think you need to worry about your resume.”  
  
Neal had to grin, Peter was right. But then, he usually was, but he couldn’t resist tweaking Peter. “Better than mortgage fraud and bank scams any day.” They both chuckled. Neal added, “Saw Moz and El last night. Do you believe that their eldest is graduating high school next month??”  
  
It was Peter’s turn to laugh. “You’ve got to be kidding me! And to think, El never wanted kids in the first place."  
  
“Well, you know how persuasive Moz can be.”  
  
“There’s obviously a reason why he calls himself a Machiavellian puppet master.”  
  
“Wonder if they’ll ever get married.” Neal mused.  
  
“If El wanted a ring on her finger, believe me, there’d be one there by now.” Peter spoke with the assurance of a old friend.  
  
They walked around the playground. The slide was new – colorful plastic modules instead of aluminum polished by the passage of small, denim clad bottoms. The whirligig was gone – probably the victim of one too many lawsuits.  
  
“I always liked this playground.” Peter commented. “Had a lot of fun here.”  
  
Neal nodded in agreement. “It seems so much smaller, though. Memory plays tricks like that.”  
  
They circled back to the swings. Neal gave into the urge and sat down. It wasn’t uncomfortably small, but a little too low to the ground. “I think I’m too tall for these. Too old, too.”  
  
Peter, standing behind him, snorted in agreement, and then stopped.  
  
“What’s the matter?”  
  
“Just a memory.”  
  
“A good one?”  
  
“Yeah – I think.”  
  
“You think?”  
  
“I don’t know if it’s real, or something I imagined.” Peter looked off into the distance. “Must have been six years old. Was here – at the swings. Someone from school – I can’t remember his name – had pushed this little kid to the ground.”  
  
Neal felt his heart race – this was the memory he’d been chasing before. “And you told him off – I think you threatened to tell everyone that he still wet the bed.”  
  
“Yeah – that’s it!” Peter shook his head, incredulous. “That was you – that little kid was you?”  
  
“I can’t believe it – that was _you_. How could I have forgotten that?” Neal tilted his head back, looking up at Peter. “That’s a little – ” Neal couldn’t think of the word.  
  
“Scary?”  
  
Neal tried to swing, but just ended up scuffing his shoe. “Hard to believe, but I guess we were always meant to be friends.”  
  
“Friends, yeah.” Peter agreed, with a wry twist of his lips. He bent over and kissed Neal, kissed the wonder into him, kissed the lingering melancholy away. Thirty years on, Peter still kissed like a conqueror, and yet he kissed with the tenderness of a husband and lover. And friend. “Wanna push?”  
  
“Sure, why not?” Neal stretched out his legs and leaned back. Peter’s hand gripped the chain above his. The last of the mist was burning off, and the early morning sun caught the gold of their matching wedding bands.  
  
The sky was bright blue and the day promised to be spectacular.  
  
 _FIN_


End file.
